My father died alone on the side of Highway 49, leaning against his broken Harley in 103-degree heat. He’d called me seventeen times that week—I ignored them, assuming he just wanted money again. I never listened to his last voicemail. We hadn’t spoken since I refused to help him after an argument over his bike.

At his garage, I found photo albums of him cheering me on at games, working night shifts, saving every childhood drawing I made. His biker friends told me he carried my baby photo everywhere and was trying to reach me because he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. All he wanted was one last ride with me to the lake we used to visit.

When they found him, he was still clutching his phone. My number was on the screen.

His funeral drew hundreds—riders whose lives he’d touched with quiet kindness. In his room, I found a leather jacket he’d bought me, with a note: “For when you’re ready to ride with your old man again.”

I wasn’t. I never was.

Now, I wear that jacket, aching with regret. I judged him for who he wasn’t, instead of loving him for who he was.

I’m so sorry, Dad.