My son told people his biker father was dead because he was ashamed of me.
Now I’m the only one standing beside him as his life fades away.
I’m in a hospital room so cold it feels unreal, pressing my lips to my son’s forehead while machines do the work his body can’t anymore. The last thing he ever said to me—three weeks before the accident—still echoes in my head:
“I wish you really were dead.”
Now the doctors are waiting for me to decide when his heart should stop.
Three weeks ago, none of this existed. No ICU. No beeping monitors. No nurse looking at me like I was lying when I said, “I’m his father.” According to my son’s paperwork, his father was deceased.
I’m Robert Mitchell. Sixty-one years old. Tattooed arms. Long beard. Leather vest that’s been with me longer than most marriages. I’ve ridden motorcycles since I was seventeen, and I never pretended to be anything else.
And somehow, that made me invisible to my own child.
Tyler was born when I was twenty-seven. His mother loved the wild version of me—until responsibility showed up. Then my bikes became “reckless,” my shop wasn’t a “real career,” and my friends were “bad influences.” When she left, she painted me as unfit in court. The judge agreed.
Continue reading on next page…