My dad died last week—alone, by the side of Highway 49. His Harley had broken down in 103-degree heat. He’d called me 17 times over three days. I didn’t answer.
We’d been distant for years. He always chose his biker club over birthdays and big moments—missed my graduation, was late to my wedding. When he refused to help with my kitchen remodel, I cut him off for good.
Truth is, I was embarrassed by him—his leather, his grime, his loud life didn’t match mine. So when he kept calling, I assumed he wanted money. I deleted his last voicemail without listening.
Then he died—clutching a letter for me. I found it in his riding jacket. He had cancer. He wanted one last ride, to the lake where we used to fish with Mom.
I broke down in his garage, surrounded by the life I never took time to see.
His biker friends told me he never missed a chance to brag about me. One showed me a photo he carried of me at six, saying, “You were his greatest ride.”
He started riding after Mom died, to survive raising me alone. “The bike kept me alive for you,” he’d written.
In his garage were photo albums of me, a savings account labeled “For Emma’s Dreams,” a box of my childhood drawings, and a leather jacket in my size: “For when you’re ready to ride.”
I wasn’t—until after he was gone.
We gave him the ride he wanted. His club led a procession down Highway 49, his Harley in tow. Later, they taught me to ride—just as he’d planned in a notebook I never knew existed.
Two months later, I got my license. They gave me a purple bike—his idea. Now, I ride every Sunday. I visit the lake. I wear a patch that says “Jack’s Daughter.”
I used to think I was too good for that title.
Now I know I wasn’t good enough.