And there was a letter. A letter Ethan had written to me just fourteen days ago. A letter he never got the chance to mail.
“Dear Dad, I’ve been a coward my whole life. I told everyone you were dead because I was scared they wouldn’t accept a ‘biker’s son.’ I thought image was everything. But the truth is, Alan never taught me how to be a man. You did. I’m going to call you this week. I’m going to bring the kids. I’m tired of lying. I’m sorry, Dad. I love you.”
Reading those words while watching his heart rate monitor slow down was a specialized kind of hell. He was coming back to me. The bridge was being built. And then the world ended.
Raising the Next Generation: A Biker’s Vow
Ethan passed away on the third day. I was the one who held his hand when they turned off the machines. I was the one who whispered that I forgave him.
The funeral was a sea of suits and ties. Ethan’s partners from the firm stood there, offering platitudes about his “career.” I sat in the front row, a bearded biker in a sea of charcoal wool. I felt their eyes. I felt their judgment.
