I sold his motorcycle. Secretly. Through a friend.
Quickly, before he could leave for his “trip across the country.”
I paid off all my loans. I got my peace back. I got my future back.
But my father… He lost it. He screamed, shouted, called me a traitor. Said I had stolen his last dream.
He was shaking. I had never seen him like that. Then — silence.
He collapsed onto the couch, clutching his chest. We barely made it in time to call the ambulance. The doctors said — stress, high blood pressure, heart issues.
He was lucky to survive. Since then, he’s been in the hospital. Going through rehab.
And strangely enough — he’s not angry. He’s quiet. Sometimes he looks out the window and whispers: “I’ll get back up.
I’ll buy another motorcycle. Even if it’s just $100. I’ll ride anyway.”
And me… I don’t regret anything.
Now I have a clean credit history. I sleep peacefully. I can plan my life again.
And he… he can keep dreaming. A dream isn’t a motorcycle. A dream is a luxury when you have grown children drowning in debt.
