And when I discovered a dusty wooden box hidden beneath his workbench, everything I thought I knew about him fell apart.
My father wasn’t someone who rode motorcycles casually. Riding was his entire world. He owned an old 1994 Harley Softail that seemed more important to him than anything else—including me. At least that’s how it felt growing up.
One of my earliest memories is standing at the front door in my pajamas, barely four years old, watching the red glow of his motorcycle’s taillight disappear down the road.
My mom would always say, “Daddy will be back soon.”
But “soon” could mean days.
He missed my fifth birthday. My eighth. My tenth. In fact, he missed every single one.
My mother always tried to soften the disappointment.
“He had to go ride,” she’d explain. “Club business. He’ll make it up to you.”
