But I never expected what would happen when I went to serve him the papers, as he was polishing the chrome on his bike. He looked up, eyes clearer than they’d been in months, and said, “I was waiting for this.”

He handed me a folded envelope. Inside was a note in his shaky handwriting: “If I ever forget your mother’s name or can’t find my way home, take the keys. I want to ride free, not die lost.”

He knew. Deep down, he knew.

Tears welled in my eyes as I knelt beside him. He smiled, placed the keys in my palm, and whispered, “Promise me you’ll visit. Tell me about the road sometimes.”

I did. I promised. And when the truck came to take the Harley away, he saluted it—one final goodbye.

Now he spends his mornings watching the birds instead of dodging traffic, and he laughs more. I bring him patches from old biker meets. He doesn’t always remember my name, but he remembers the sound of the wind.

Moral: Sometimes love means making the hardest decisions—not for control, but for care. Protecting those we love can feel like betrayal, but it’s often the truest form of devotion.