My dad pass.ed away last week, alone, on the side of Highway 49.
His Harley had broken down under the brutal 103-degree sun. He had called me seventeen times over three days. I didn’t answer once.
I told myself I had good reasons. We’d been distant for years. He was always more invested in his biker club than in birthdays or holidays.
He skipped my college graduation for a cross-country ride. He showed up to my wedding late, reeking of gasoline and leather.
I stopped taking his calls after he refused to help fund my kitchen remodel, saying, “Sweetheart, some things matter more than granite countertops.”
The truth is, I was embarrassed by him. His weathered jackets, stained hands, and roaring Harley didn’t match the image I’d built for myself.
He didn’t fit into my world of wine tastings and curated photo walls. So, when he kept calling, I assumed he needed money, or maybe a ride.
I didn’t listen to the voicemail he left. I deleted it without a second thought.
Then he d!ed—collapsed beside his motorcycle, clutching a letter addressed to me.
I found the letter when I finally went to his house, a place I hadn’t visited in years. It was tucked in the pocket of his riding jacket, stained and crumpled.
It began, “My darling daughter, if you’re reading this, I couldn’t wait any longer.” He wrote that the can:cer had spread, that doctors had given him only weeks.
He wanted one last ride with me, to the lake where we used to fish when Mom was alive. Just one quiet afternoon together before the end.
I sank to the garage floor, surrounded by old tools and bike parts, and wept.
His biker friends showed up to tell me more. They’d found him when he didn’t show up for their weekly ride—a first in forty years.
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