For fifty years, he slogged away in a dingy motorcycle repair shop, hands always smeared with grease, his clothes steeped in the smell of motor oil and smoke. He embarrassed me countless times in front of my friends with his worn tattoos and weathered leather vest. Now that he’s finally sold the place, I thought he might do something worthwhile with that money—like help his only daughter out of debt, maybe contribute to the condo I’ve been trying to afford. But no. He’s decided to “invest in his happiness” with a flashy bike and what amounts to a glorified midlife crisis on two wheels.
When I called him out on it yesterday, he actually chuckled and said, “Sweetheart, at my age, all crises are end-of-life crises.” Like that’s supposed to be clever. Like being 42 somehow disqualifies me from needing his support. He just doesn’t get it—I have years ahead of me, goals I’m struggling to reach, and that money could’ve made a real difference. Instead, he’s going to waste it riding around until his heart gives out in the middle of nowhere.
All my friends agree—parents should help their children when they’re able. But Dad just keeps going on about “the open road calling,” and how he’s already planned a three-month cross-country trip to all the places he never got to see—“before it’s too late.”
Too late for what, exactly? Too late to actually act like a parent? I’ve had to cancel my vacation to the Bahamas because of my financial situation, while he’s out here planning to “live free” like he’s some teenage runaway. It’s completely unfair. I’m stuck in a dead-end assistant manager job, barely staying afloat, while he squanders what should’ve been my inheritance on one final, misguided thrill.
So I made a decision. If he wouldn’t give me the money willingly, I’d take it. I told myself I had every right. I was ready to do whatever it took.
Or at least, I thought I was.
The day before he was set to leave, I drove to his place with a folder full of legal documents and a half-formed plan to guilt him—or, if needed, push him into doing the “right thing” through more forceful means.
I found him in the garage, polishing that ridiculous Harley like it was a treasure. When he noticed me, he looked up and said, “Didn’t think you could stand the smell of gas.”
I didn’t reply. Just handed him the folder.
He glanced at it and set it aside without opening it.
“Planning to sue your old man, Laney?” he said with a half-smile.
“I just want what’s fair,” I said sharply. “You always taught me that family comes first. So what kind of father leaves his daughter struggling while he rides off into the sunset?”
He slowly stood up, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Come inside,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
I sighed, rolled my eyes, but followed.