Growing up, my parents and I were inseparable. They were my anchor, my safety net, the people I thought would always put family first. So when my mom passed away and my dad retired, I naturally assumed we’d lean on each other more than ever.
I thought he’d settle into a quiet life, maybe even step in to support me while I tried to rebuild my own. Instead, he shocked me.
After selling the motorbike repair shop he’d poured fifty years into, my dad didn’t choose security or family stability. No—he bought himself a brand-new Harley for $35,000 and announced plans for a cross-country trip. His words? “Before it’s too late.”
For him, it was a “final adventure.” For me, it was my future slipping away.
While he dreams about highways and sunsets, I’m drowning in bills, scraping to afford a modest condo, and putting my own plans on hold. His money—what I saw as the foundation for my future—is gone, tied up in chrome and leather saddlebags.
When I bring it up, he just laughs. “At my age, all crises are end-of-life crises,” he says. He calls it humor. I call it selfishness.
What stings the most? I had to cancel a Bahamas trip I was finally ready to take—a small dream, something to lift me out of my daily grind. I thought I’d pay for it with what should’ve been, in my eyes, my inheritance. But instead, Dad’s inheritance to himself is freedom on two wheels.
And my friends agree with me. They say it’s a parent’s responsibility to make sure their children are financially secure, to help them step into adulthood with confidence. Isn’t that what love looks like?
But Dad doesn’t see it that way. He claims this trip is a tribute to Mom. That she wanted him to keep living fully after she was gone. He insists she would’ve wanted him to ride, to chase joy. But deep down, I can’t believe that. I’m certain Mom would’ve wanted me to use that money to build a stable life.
And so, here I am—torn in two. Part of me wants to cut ties, stop calling, stop hoping. Just let him ride off into the distance without me. But another part still clings to the father I grew up with, the man who once put family above everything.
I don’t know which voice to listen to anymore—the one that tells me to walk away, or the one that begs me to wait for him to come back to me, not as a biker chasing one last road, but as my dad.
