Motorcycles made sense to me.
People were harder.
A worn bearing made noise.
A loose connection caused problems.
An engine that ran poorly usually gave you clues if you were patient enough to find them.
But people could say one thing while meaning another.
They could hide pain.
They could walk away.
And sometimes they could leave you with a question that never stopped hurting.
My daughter had left me with one of those questions.
For nine years, I told myself she had made her choice.
She was an adult.
She had every right to decide whom she wanted in her life.
And I had no right to force my way back into it.
That much was true.
But I also used it as an excuse.
Because accepting her decision was easier than admitting why she'd made it.
The envelope in my mailbox was plain white.
No return address.
No company logo.
Just my name written across the front in pencil.
Inside was a single sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper.
The message was short.
Lou's Diner. Route 66. Saturday at noon.
Wear your vest.
Come alone.
At the bottom was a little blue star.
And beneath it was my daughter's childhood nickname.
I sat down right there on the gravel.
For several minutes, I couldn't move.
I kept turning the paper over.
Looking for an explanation.
A phone number.
Anything.
There was nothing.
Just the diner.
The time.
The instructions.
And a name I had spent nine years trying not to say aloud.
I don't remember how long I sat beside the mailbox.
Eventually, my neighbor drove past.
He slowed his pickup.
"Everything all right?"
I looked up.
He frowned when he saw my face.
"What's wrong?"
I folded the letter.
Then stood.
"Nothing."
He studied me.
"You sure?"
I nodded.
"Yeah."
But I wasn't sure of anything.
I went into the workshop.
Opened an old metal cabinet.
And removed the black leather vest I hadn't worn regularly in years.
The leather was stiff.
The silver snaps were scratched.
The club emblem had faded.
And directly over the left side of my chest was the empty rectangular space.
Nine years earlier, I'd removed a patch from that spot.
Then regretted it so badly that I'd never allowed anyone to cover the marks.
The old stitch holes remained.
I ran one finger along them.
Then looked toward the letter.
Wear your vest.
Somebody knew.
Somebody knew about that empty space.