At his funeral, hundreds of bikers showed up.
They shared stories of how he’d helped them, offering work, shelter, and advice.
One woman said, “Your dad saved my life. Twice.” They laid patches and pins on his casket, a tribute from the family he built on the road.
That night, I found three things in his house that shattered me: a savings account labeled “For Emma’s Dreams,” a box of every drawing I’d made as a child, and a brand-new leather jacket in my size with a note inside: “For when you’re ready to ride.”
I never was. Not while he lived.
With help from his club, we gave him the ride he wanted.
They led a procession down Highway 49, his repaired Harley carried behind the hearse.
I followed in my car, feeling the weight of everything I never said.
Afterward, one of his friends taught me to ride. She used the plan he had written out for me in an old notebook. Two months later, I got my license.
The club surprised me with a purple bike—his idea, they said.
My favorite color.
Now, I ride every Sunday. I visit the lake. I keep his garage just the way he left it.
And I listen to stories from his friends, to the hum of the road, to the silence where his voice used to be.
I wear a patch now that says “Jack’s Daughter.” I used to think I was too good for that title.
Now, I know I never deserved it.
