Then the handwriting became less even.
I am not writing to ask for money.
The old biker swallowed.
I am writing because I recently learned I am pregnant.
He stopped reading.
His vision blurred.
He looked toward the photograph of his late friend hanging in the workshop.
Then back at the letter.
He never knew.
I found out after the accident.
I keep thinking about all the things I wish I had told him.
The old biker covered his mouth.
He continued.
I know you and he had a disagreement.
He would not explain it to me in detail.
But he spoke about you often.
He called you the man who taught him how to rebuild an engine and how to keep his word.
A tear fell onto the paper.
Sometimes he was angry with you.
But he never stopped saying you had once been his closest friend.
The old biker closed his eyes.
The words felt almost unbearable.
He forced himself to continue.
If this child is a boy, I want him to know his father was kind.
If this child is a girl, I want her to know the same.
I don't have many photographs of the old riding years.
And I know almost none of the stories he used to tell about your trips.
Would you consider writing a few memories for the baby?
You don't have to visit.
You don't have to send anything expensive.
Just tell me something about him that I can give our child when the time comes.
The old biker bent forward.
He pressed one hand over his eyes.
For several minutes, he could not continue.
Then he read the final paragraph.
He told me once that if anything happened to him, you would know how to tell our children who he really was.
I hope that is still true.
The letter ended with a simple thank-you.
The old biker sat motionless.
His friend had trusted him.
Even after the argument.
Even after leaving the club.
He had still spoken of the older man as someone who would help his children understand him.
And the old biker had failed to answer.