I became estranged from my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ parents.

I always hated my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ parents. The embarrassment burned in my chest every time he roared up to my high school on that ancient Harley, leather vest covered in oil stains, gray beard wild in the wind.

I wouldn’t even call him “Dad” in front of my friends. The last time I saw him alive, I refused to hug him.

It was my college graduation, and my friends’ parents were there in suits and pearls. Gavin showed up in his only pair of decent jeans and a button-up shirt that couldn’t hide the faded tattoos on his forearms.

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