Then he died. And I found a box under his workbench that destroyed everything I thought I knew about him.
Let me back up.
My father was a rider. Not a weekend warrior. Not a hobby guy. He lived on that bike. A beat-up 1994 Harley Softail that he loved more than he ever loved me. At least that’s what I believed.
My earliest memory is watching him ride away. I was maybe four. Standing at the screen door in my pajamas while his taillight disappeared down the road.
My mom would say “Daddy will be back soon.” But soon could mean days.
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Get all the stories straight to your inboxHe missed my fifth birthday. My eighth. My tenth. Every single one. My mom would make excuses. “He had to ride. He had club business. He’ll make it up to you.”
He never made it up to me.
When I turned thirteen, I stopped expecting him to show up. By sixteen, I stopped caring. By eighteen, I was gone. Moved across the state. Didn’t leave a forwarding address.
