I told everyone my biker father had died when I was twelve, just so I wouldn’t have to admit he existed.
My name is Emma Richardson. I’m twenty-four now, and for twelve years I’ve been lying about my father.
The last time I told the truth—that he was alive—Brittany Chen’s mom refused to let her come to my birthday party. “We don’t associate with criminal families,” she said, loud enough for everyone in seventh grade to hear.
So I killed him off—at least in my story.
My father, Marcus “Tank” Richardson, went to prison when I was eleven. They said it was armed robbery, but the truth was more complicated. He’d been holding money for another club member, took the blame, and refused to betray his brothers. He got seven years.
Mom divorced him immediately. She moved us three states away, changed back to her maiden name, and started fresh. No one there knew about the tattooed biker who once picked me up from school on a Harley that made alarms go off.
I used to love that Harley. Begged for rides. Wore a little leather jacket he’d made for me with “Tank’s Little Girl” stitched on the back.
Mom threw that jacket out the day he was arrested.
“Your father made his choice,” she said. “He chose his club over us.”
She wasn’t wrong. The cops had offered him a deal—two years if he testified. He refused. Chose seven years instead of betraying his brothers. Chose them over me.
By eighth grade, I was Emma Mitchell, using Mom’s maiden name. When people asked about my dad, I told them he died in a car accident saving people from a burning bus. Teachers were kinder. Kids stopped teasing me about my clothes. I wasn’t the girl with the criminal father anymore—I was the girl with the dead hero dad.
The lie got easier. By high school, I’d almost convinced myself it was true. I joined student council, National Honor Society, and went to college pre-med. I was determined to be respectable, successful, everything my father wasn’t.
His letters came monthly at first. Mom forwarded them, even though I begged her not to. I had a ritual: I’d burn them unopened in the sink, watch his words turn to ash.
When I was eighteen, he got out. He showed up at my high school graduation. I had security remove him, telling them he was a stalker. I watched from the window as he was escorted out.
He found me again at college during parents’ weekend. I told my roommate to call campus security, denied knowing him, and closed the curtains while he waved at me.
The calls started junior year. Unknown numbers. I’d hear motorcycles in the background and hang up. He never left messages.
By senior year, I had a perfect life. My boyfriend, David, was a law student and a senator’s son. He proposed in front of two hundred people at his country club. His mother asked about my father, and I repeated the lie: “He died when I was twelve.” She even suggested a memorial candle at the wedding. I felt relieved. Finally free of him.
Then, a week before the wedding, I got a call from a hospital. They said my father had listed me as his emergency contact. I told them they had the wrong person—my father was dead. But they said he had photos of me, a birth certificate, and my name.
Stage four brain cancer. He had known for two years. He was dying.
I didn’t go at first. I told David, and he was shocked. I admitted I’d lied. He left, saying he needed to think. His family postponed the wedding. Then he accused me of lying about who I really was.
At 2 a.m., I finally went to the hospital. He looked small, weak, eaten away by cancer. The leather jacket draped over a chair was the only part of him unchanged.
“Hi, Dad.”
He cried when he saw me. Said he thought it was the morphine. We talked. He admitted he chose prison, but explained why—he was protecting money the club had raised for a little girl’s leukemia treatment. If he’d taken the deal, the government would have seized it, and she would have died.
He showed me a letter from the girl’s mother. The girl lived. She became a nurse.
I broke. For twelve years, I’d told everyone he was dead, but here he was, showing me he’d sacrificed his freedom to save a life.
Over the next days, I kept visiting. We talked about my childhood, about prison, about his regrets. His room was full of photos of me he had collected over the years. He knew everything—my grades, my acceptance into pre-med, even my engagement.
David came once, but my father cut through him: “She survived. That’s not the same as lying. Can you love her as she really is?” David left without answering.
The bikers came too. They told stories about him helping children, veterans, and running charity rides. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t just a criminal either.
Two weeks later, he died. I was holding his hand. His last words were, “Tell Emma I love her.” I said, “I’m right here.” He smiled: “Tell her anyway. Every day.”
The funeral was massive—three hundred bikers, veterans, families. Lily, the girl he saved, hugged me and told me he was a hero.
David showed up, tried to reconcile, but I told him no. “My name is Emma Richardson. My father was a biker, an ex-convict, but he loved me more than anyone. That’s who I am. Can you love that?” He couldn’t.
Now I wear his jacket. Had it tailored to fit. I ride a Harley I bought with part of the inheritance. The rest I gave to cancer research. I’m in my third year of medical school now, at a new school where no one knows my old lies.
When people ask about my dad, I tell the truth: “He was a biker. An ex-convict. He made mistakes, but he paid for them. He died of brain cancer two years ago. I miss him every day.”
Some people judge. Some walk away. But some understand.
I’m dating someone new now. His name is Marcus—by coincidence. He’s a teacher, and his father was in prison too. He understands.
I visited my dad’s grave last week. Sat in the mud, brought his favorite beer, and told him I was sorry for being ashamed. The wind sounded like motorcycle engines.
“I love you too, Dad. Every day.”
My name is Emma Richardson. My father wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t respectable. But he was mine. And I was his.
That’s everything.
The little girl who loved riding his Harley is still here. She just got lost for a while. Now she’s back—jacket and all.
A biker’s daughter.
And that’s more than enough.