or three days. Held Tyler’s hand. Talked to him even though he couldn’t hear me. Told him about all the rides we used to take. The diners we used to eat at. The time he fell off his first bike and got right back on because I told him that’s what Mitchells do.
Told him I forgave him. Told him I understood. Told him I loved him. Had always loved him. Would always love him.
Sarah brought the kids on the second day. My grandchildren. A boy and a girl. Nine and seven. They looked at me with curious eyes.
“Are you really our grandpa?” the little girl asked.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I really am.”
“Daddy said his dad died before we were born.”
I swallowed hard. “Your daddy and I… we had some problems. But we loved each other very much. And I already love you, even though we just met.”
The boy studied my vest. My tattoos. “You’re a biker?”
“Yes, son. I’ve been riding motorcycles my whole life.”
He thought about this. “That’s cool. Will you teach me to ride someday?”
On the third day, the doctors said it was time. Time to make the decision. Time to let Tyler go.
I bent over my son’s bed. Kissed his forehead like I used to when he was a baby. Whispered in his ear, “I got your letter, son. I forgive you. I love you. And I’ll take care of your kids. I’ll teach them to ride. I’ll tell them about their father. They’ll know you. They’ll know all of you. I promise.”
Sarah was crying. The kids were crying. My brothers were crying.
And I was saying goodbye to my only child.
They turned off the machines. Tyler’s chest stopped rising. The beeping went flat. And my son was gone.
The funeral was two weeks later. Sarah invited my club brothers. Fifty bikers showed up in their vests and patches. They stood respectfully in the back of the church while Tyler’s fancy colleagues and friends stared and whispered.
I gave the eulogy. Stood up in front of all those people who’d never known I existed and told them about my son.
I looked at the crowd. At all those people Tyler had tried so hard to impress. “Tyler was ashamed of me. He told you all I was dead. Because he thought you wouldn’t accept him if you knew his father was a biker. He was probably right. Most of you would have judged him. Judged me. Decided we weren’t good enough for your country clubs and your fancy parties.”
“But here’s what Tyler knew, even when he was pretending he didn’t: his biker father loved him unconditionally. Would have died for him. Would have given him anything. Did give him everything. And now that Tyler’s gone, this biker father is going to raise his grandchildren. Is going to teach them that family is more important than image. That love is more important than what other people think.”
I pulled out Tyler’s letter. Read it out loud. Let everyone hear what my son had really felt. What he’d been too scared to say.
When I finished, the room was silent. People were crying. Even the ones who’d stared at my brothers with suspicion.
After the service, a man approached me. Tyler’s boss. Expensive suit. Fancy watch. The kind of man Tyler had wanted to impress.
“Mr. Mitchell, I owe you an apology. I judged Tyler when I found out his father was still alive. Told him it was unprofessional to lie about something like that. I didn’t understand why he’d done it.”
He looked at my vest. My tattoos. “But now I do. He was scared of men like me. Scared I wouldn’t see him the same way if I knew the truth. And he was right. I wouldn’t have. I was the worst kind of snob.”
He extended his hand. “You raised a good man. Whatever problems you had, Tyler was a good man. I’m sorry you missed so many years with him.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
My grandchildren live with me now. Sarah and I worked it out. She couldn’t handle them alone, and they needed family. Real family. Not the fake image their father had tried to build.
They’re learning to ride. Both of them. Started on little dirt bikes in my yard. They call me Grandpa Robert. They ask questions about their father constantly.
“Was Daddy really ashamed of you, Grandpa?”
“Yes, sweetheart. He was.”
“That’s stupid. You’re the coolest grandpa ever.”
I laugh every time. Because children don’t care about image. They care about love. And I’ve got more love for these kids than their father ever let himself accept.
I wear Tyler’s letter in the inside pocket of my vest now. Next to my heart. A reminder of what almost was. What should have been. What I’ll never let happen again.
My son was ashamed of me his whole life. And he died before he could tell me he was sorry.
But I forgive him. I forgave him the moment I read that letter.
Because being a father means loving unconditionally. Loving even when your children hurt you. Loving even when they pretend you don’t exist.
I loved Tyler Mitchell his whole life. I loved him when he was a baby. When he was a boy. When he was a teenager trying to fit in. When he was a man pretending I was dead.
And I’ll love him forever. Even now. Even gone.
That’s what fathers do. Even biker fathers. Especially biker fathers.
We love with our whole hearts. We protect with everything we have. And we never, ever give up on our kids.
Not even when they give up on us.
