I used to be embarrassed by my father, Frank — a leather-clad motorcycle mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ dads. At my college graduation, he wore jeans and a button-up that revealed faded tattoos. When he went to hug me, I shook his hand instead. The look in his eyes still haunts me. Three weeks later, he was killed in a motorcycle accident.
At his funeral, I expected a small crowd. Instead, hundreds of bikers from six states filled the church parking lot, all wearing orange ribbons — Frank’s color. One by one, they shared stories: how he organized charity rides, delivered medicine through snowstorms, and saved lives — including helping one man get sober.
After the service, I was given a leather bag he’d left for me. Inside was a letter that read:
