When my dad sold his motorcycle shop after 50 years and hit the road on a Harley, I felt abandoned. At 42, drowning in bills and trying to buy a condo, I couldn’t understand why he chose freedom over helping me. I expected support—but he chose himself.
After Mom died, I thought he’d slow down. Instead, he went back to his biker roots. When I asked for help, he simply said, “I already gave you a solid start.” His trip, he told me, was a promise to Mom—to keep living.
The night he left, I was hurt. But before he rode off, he handed me a check from selling his tools—not out of obligation, but love. Watching him go, I realized his journey wasn’t selfish—it was healing.
He came back months later, sun-weathered and full of stories. When I apologized, he smiled and said, “I’m glad you finally see me.” In choosing himself, he gave me something too: permission to start over.
