Every member present ordered one.
The patch would later be sent to chapters across the country.
Ryan would no longer be a forgotten name.
He would become part of the brotherhood's memory.
But for Nathan, the most important moment came later.
He found Margaret sitting outside the pavilion.
Ellie was playing with several children nearby.
She was laughing.
A real laugh.
The kind Nathan hadn't heard from her before.
"She hasn't laughed like that in years," Margaret said.
Nathan watched her.
"I owe you an apology."
Margaret looked at him.
"For what?"
"For all of us."
Margaret shook her head.
"You didn't know."
Nathan looked down.
"We should have."
"Maybe."
She placed a hand on his arm.
"But you know now."
Nathan looked at her.
"And you did something about it."
She smiled sadly.
"That's what matters."
The Photographs
A week later, Pete drove to Cedar Falls.
He carried an old shoebox.
Inside were photographs.
Ryan laughing.
Ryan riding.
Ryan standing beside his brothers.
Ryan holding trophies.
Ryan smiling at charity events.
Pete handed the box to Margaret.
"I should have brought these sooner."
Margaret looked at him.
"But you brought them now."
She held the box against her chest.
"That's what matters."
That evening, Ellie spread the photographs across the kitchen table.
She touched each one.
Then she stopped.
"That's Daddy."
She pointed to a photograph of Ryan surrounded by dozens of riders.
"He looks happy."
Margaret smiled.
"He was."
Ellie stared at the picture.
For the first time, she wasn't looking at a photograph of a dead man.
She was looking at her father.
A living man.
A smiling man.
A man who had loved motorcycles, his brothers, and his little girl.
The Road Home
Nathan returned to Sioux City.
For the first time in years, he couldn't escape the feeling that his life was waiting for him.
The divorce papers were still on his kitchen counter.
He signed them.
Not angrily.
Not bitterly.
Simply honestly.
Then he called his daughter.
She was twenty-three and living in Minneapolis.
They talked for forty minutes.
Longer than they had talked in more than a year.
"What changed?" she asked.
Nathan thought about Ellie.
"A seven-year-old girl taught me something."
"What?"
"People shouldn't have to tie ribbons to strangers' motorcycles just to be remembered."
His daughter was quiet.
Then she said:
"I'd like to meet her someday."
Nathan smiled.
"I think she'd like that."
The Memorial Ride
That October, the brotherhood established the Ryan Brennan Memorial Fund.
It would provide scholarships to children of fallen members.
They also organized a memorial ride along Highway 20.
One hundred and twelve motorcycles gathered at the starting point.
Margaret stood beside Ellie.
Nathan waited beside his motorcycle.
Ellie approached him.
In her hand was another pink ribbon.