Ever since my mother passed away, the house had grown colder than ever. I thought, after such a loss, my father would love me more, would stay by my side. But no. He left at dawn and returned long after the night had fallen.
Dinner was always just me alone at the long wooden table, quietly chewing cold rice.
I never knew where he went. Neighbors whispered: “He’s out with his biker gang again.” My classmates shrank back whenever they saw him park his Harley at the gate—afraid of his tattoos and his stone-cold face. To them, he was frightening. To me, he was simply the father who was never home.
Every night I sat on my bed, clutching my mother’s photo, whispering as if she could hear me: “I wish you were still alive. At least I’d have someone to lean on.”
That day was my birthday. I had been waiting all month, just for my father to sit beside me and blow out candles. I didn’t care about gifts, dolls, or fancy dresses. I only wanted him there, to place his hand on my shoulder and smile: “My little girl is one year older.”
But the afternoon slipped away. The sunlight faded outside the window. The room sank into darkness. A small birthday cake sat on the table, the candle burning down into dripping wax. I hugged my knees, my eyes blurred with tears.
“Mom, why doesn’t Dad ever remember me? Why does he always choose the road over coming home?”
I cried until I couldn’t breathe, a storm of anger and sorrow. In my heart I cursed him with words I would regret forever: “I wish you didn’t exist.”
Night fell. Outside, the familiar rumble of an engine. The door opened, and my father walked in—still in his worn leather jacket, still smelling of smoke and asphalt.
He hesitated, then managed only two words:
– “I’m sorry…”
I didn’t let him say more. Tears streamed down as I turned my face away, refusing to look at him. My chest was a knot of rage, disappointment, and crushing loneliness.
He stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do with the little girl who hated him.
A knock on the door broke the silence. One of my father’s biker brothers stepped in, carrying a small gift box. He set it on the table and looked at me kindly.
– “You blame your father, don’t you? He should’ve been home tonight. But there was a child trapped in a burning house. Without him, that kid might not be alive. Everything was urgent… he couldn’t make it back in time.”
I froze. Tears still clung to my cheeks, but my heart began to tremble.
The man continued:
– “Your father isn’t out there to fight or make trouble. Even if his looks scare people, in truth… he’s a hero. A kind of superhero, in his own way. And he’s never alone—he’s got us, his brothers, riding with him.”
He smiled gently, then excused himself.
I burst into sobs again, but this time not from anger. I ran to my father, wrapped my arms around him, choking on my words:
– “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have blamed you. My only wish now is… that you stay healthy and always be with me.”
My father said nothing, but held me tight, as if to make up for every day he had been absent.
The next morning, stepping out of my room, I stopped in shock.
On the table lay a doll I had always wanted, a white princess dress, and a handwritten note:
“I’m sorry, my daughter. I never forgot you. Sometimes I have to choose to save someone else. But in my heart, you are always my greatest treasure.”
I hugged the gift to my chest, tears spilling once more. For the first time, I understood that absence does not always mean neglect. Sometimes, it is proof of a different kind of love—love for life, for those in need, and most of all… for me, his only child.
Since that day, I’ve never felt ashamed when friends whispered about my biker father covered in tattoos. I lift my head high and say with pride:
– “That’s my dad. He may not look like anyone else. But to me, he’s a hero.”
