Every time I called the police about the strange biker in my yard, the same thing happened. Officer Martinez would talk to him, leave without an arrest—and the next morning, another section of my broken fence would be repaired.
I’m Rebecca Torres, a single mom of two. I bought my rundown house after my divorce because it was all I could afford. Everything was falling apart, especially the fence. I didn’t have money to fix it, but it wasn’t dangerous. It could wait.
Then he started showing up.
An older man on a loud Harley. Gray beard. Leather vest. He’d park across the street and stare at my house. One morning, I found him in my backyard, on his knees, fixing the fence. I called 911.
By the time the officer arrived, the man was gone—and my fence was stronger than it had been in years.
It happened again. And again.
The second time, I ran outside yelling—and that’s when I recognized him.
It was my father. The man who abandoned me when I was four. The man I’d spent my life resenting.
I kept calling the police. He kept fixing things. Never spoke. Never entered my home.
One winter morning, the fence was completely finished. Painted. Reinforced. And taped to the gate was a letter.
He said he didn’t want forgiveness. Just wanted to do one thing right before it was too late.
When I opened the gate, he was waiting to leave.
I told him he couldn’t just fix things and disappear.
That winter, he stopped sneaking into my yard.
He knocked.
And slowly, he became someone my children waved to—a man trying to mend what he could, one board at a time.