I Was Ashamed of My Father—Until I Learned the Truth About His Life
Growing up, I hated that my father, Frank, was a motorcycle mechanic.
While my friends’ parents were doctors, lawyers, and executives, Frank rode up to my school on an old Harley, wearing oil-stained jeans and a wild gray beard. I couldn’t even call him “Dad” in public. Around my friends, he was just “Frank”—a name that felt safer, more distant.
At my college graduation, I couldn’t even bring myself to hug him. He wore his best pair of jeans and a faded button-up shirt that couldn’t hide his tattoos. When he reached out for an embrace, I stepped back and offered a handshake instead.
The hurt in his eyes still haunts me.
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