Marcos spoke of Tomás’s first steps, his love for dinosaurs, his bravery in the hospital.
Hundreds of bikers showed up at the funeral of a boy no one wanted to bury because his father was in prison for murder.
The funeral director had called us after spending two hours alone in the chapel, waiting for someone—anyone—to come and say goodbye to little Tomás Lucero.
The boy had died of leukemia after fighting for three years, with only his grandmother visiting him—and she had suffered a heart attack the day before the burial.
Social Services said they had done their part, the foster family claimed it wasn’t their responsibility, and the parish stated they couldn’t be associated with the son of a murderer.
So this innocent child, who in his final months kept asking if his father still loved him, was going to be buried alone in a municipal grave with nothing but a number for a headstone.
That’s when Miguelón, president of the Nomad Riders, made the decision:
“No child goes under the ground alone. I don’t care whose son he is.”
What none of us knew was that Tomás’s father, in his maximum-security cell, had just learned of his son’s death and was planning to end his life that night.
The guards had him under watch, but we all know how those stories usually end.
What happened next not only gave the boy the farewell he deserved, but also saved a man who believed he had nothing left to live for.
I was drinking my morning coffee at the clubhouse when the call came.
Emilio Pardo, director of Paz Eterna funeral home, sounded as if he’d been crying.
“Manolo, I need help,” he said. “I’ve got a situation here I can’t handle alone.”
Emilio had buried my wife five years earlier, treating her with dignity when cancer had left her skin and bones. I owed him a favor.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a boy here. Ten years old. Died yesterday at the General Hospital. No one has come. And no one will come.”
“A foster child?”
“Worse. His father is Marcos Lucero.”
I knew that name. Everyone did. Marcos Lucero had killed three people in a gang-related shooting four years earlier. Life sentence. He’d been on every news broadcast.
“The boy had been dying of leukemia for three years,” Emilio continued. “His grandmother was all he had, and yesterday she had a heart attack. She’s in the ICU—might not survive. The state says to bury him. The foster family washes their hands of it. Even my staff refuses. They say it’s bad luck to bury the son of a murderer.”
“What do you need?”
“Pallbearers. Someone to… accompany him. He’s just a child, Manolo. He didn’t choose his father.”
I stood up, resolved.
“Give me two hours.”
“Manolo, I only need four people—”
“You’ll have more than four.”
I hung up and struck the gavel at the clubhouse. Within minutes, thirty-seven Nomad Riders filled the main hall.
“Brothers,” I said. “There’s a ten-year-old boy about to be buried alone because his father’s in prison. He died of cancer. No one will claim him. No one will mourn him.”
The silence was absolute.
“I’m going to his funeral,” I continued. “I’m not forcing anyone. This isn’t club business. But if you believe no child should go alone, meet me at Paz Eterna in ninety minutes.”
Old Bear spoke first: “My grandson’s ten.”
“So is mine,” said Hammer.
“My boy would have been ten,” murmured Ron quietly. “If that drunk driver hadn’t…”
He didn’t need to finish.
Miguelón stood up.
“Call the other clubs. All of them. This isn’t about turf or patches. This is about a child.”
The calls went out.
Rebel Eagles. Steel Knights. Asphalt Demons. Clubs that hadn’t spoken in years. Clubs with blood feuds. But when they heard about Tomás Lucero, they all said the same thing:
“We’ll be there.”
I arrived first at the funeral home. Emilio was outside the chapel, distraught.
“Manolo, I didn’t mean—”
The roar cut him off.
First came the Nomads, forty-three bikes. Then the Eagles, fifty. The Knights, thirty-five. The Demons, twenty-eight.
They kept coming. Veterans’ clubs. Christian bikers. Enthusiasts who had heard about it on social media.
By 2 p.m., the parking lot of Paz Eterna and three surrounding streets were filled with motorcycles.
Emilio’s eyes were wide:
“There must be three hundred bikes.”
“Three hundred twelve,” corrected Miguelón, walking up. “We counted.”
They led us into the chapel, where a small white coffin awaited, with a modest supermarket bouquet beside it.
“That’s it?” asked Snake, his voice harsh.
“The flowers are from the hospital,” admitted Emilio. “Standard protocol.”
“To hell with protocol,” someone muttered.
The chapel filled. Tough men, many with tears in their eyes, filing past the coffin.
Someone brought a teddy bear. Another, a toy motorcycle. Soon offerings surrounded it—flowers, toys, even a leather jacket embroidered with Honorary Rider.
But it was Tombstone, a veteran of the Eagles, who broke everyone’s heart.
He placed a photo beside the coffin:
“This was my boy, Javier. Same age when leukemia took him. I couldn’t save him either, Tomás. But now you’re not alone. Javier will show you the way up.”
One by one, the bikers spoke.
Not about Tomás—no one knew him—but about lost children, stolen innocence, and the belief that no child deserves to die alone for his father’s sins.
Then Emilio received a call. He came back pale.
“The prison,” he said. “Marcos Lucero… he knows. About Tomás. About the funeral. The guards have him on watch for suicide risk. He’s asking if… if anyone came for his son.”
The silence was complete.
Miguelón stood up.
“Put it on speaker.”
After a pause, Emilio dialed. A broken voice filled the chapel.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Please, is anyone with my boy?”
“Marcos Lucero,” said Miguelón firmly.
“This is Miguel Watson, president of the Nomad Riders.
There are three hundred twelve bikes here from seventeen different clubs.
We all came for Tomás.”
Silence.
Then sobs.
Heart-wrenching sobs of a man who had lost everything.
“He loved… motorcycles,” Marcos stammered. “Before I ruined everything. He had a toy Harley. Slept with it. Said he wanted to be a biker when he grew up.”
“He will be,” promised Miguelón. “With us. At every memorial, every charity ride, every time we fire up our engines, Tomás will ride with us. I swear it in the name of all the clubs here.”
“I couldn’t even say goodbye,” whispered Marcos. “Or hold him. Or tell him I loved him.”
“Tell him now,” I said. “We’ll make sure he hears you.”
The next minutes were a father’s farewell.
Marcos spoke of Tomás’s first steps, his love for dinosaurs, his bravery in the hospital.
He apologized a thousand times for not being there.
