For most of my life—twenty-six years to be exact—I carried resentment toward my father. In my mind, he had always chosen his motorcycle over his family. He missed birthdays, school plays, graduations—every important moment I wished he had been part of. All because of that bike.Family
Then he died.
And when I discovered a dusty wooden box hidden beneath his workbench, everything I thought I knew about him fell apart.
My father wasn’t someone who rode motorcycles casually. Riding was his entire world. He owned an old 1994 Harley Softail that seemed more important to him than anything else—including me. At least that’s how it felt growing up.
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