One of my earliest memories is standing at the front door in my pajamas, barely four years old, watching the red glow of his motorcycle’s taillight disappear down the road.
My mom would always say, “Daddy will be back soon.”
But “soon” could mean days.
He missed my fifth birthday. My eighth. My tenth. In fact, he missed every single one.
My mother always tried to soften the disappointment.
“He had to go ride,” she’d explain. “Club business. He’ll make it up to you.”
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