My son told me I was “an embarrassment to the family” and kicked me out of his wedding because his bride’s parents didn’t want “some old biker with tattoos” in their photos. After everything I sacrificed—selling my prized ’72 Shovelhead, working double shifts—to put him through law school.

At 68, standing in the driveway I helped buy, invitation crumpled, he spoke with his lawyer’s tone about “appearances” and the Prestons’ image. They’d never met me but judged me from a photo in my riding vest. My son told me to “cut my hair,” “remove the earring,” and “not wear anything motorcycle-related.”

I nodded and left for my Harley—the only thing that never asked me to be someone else.

I raised him alone after his mother died, with help from my motorcycle club brothers. I worked hard, sold my bike, took side jobs so he could study law. But as he grew closer to the Prestons, he became distant and ashamed of me.

That day, I realized some families aren’t built by blood—they’re chosen. I found comfort with my brothers at the Iron Brotherhood, who’ve always accepted me for who I am.