My son was ashamed to introduce me to his fiancée’s parents.
For forty-three years, I’d worn the leather vest with honor. My “colors” – the patches that told my story – were faded now, but still proudly displayed. Road Captain. Vietnam Veteran. Original member, Thunder Road MC. The vest had seen me through six decades, three marriages, and thousands of miles across America’s highways.
But to my son James, they might as well have been a prison uniform.
“Dad, I need to talk to you about meeting Christine’s parents next weekend,” James said, fidgeting with his coffee cup across my kitchen table. At 32, he looked nothing like me with his clean-cut appearance and businessman attire. No tattoos, no leather, no visible connection to the life I’d lived.
