I Burned 17 Years of Letters from My Biker Father Without Reading Them.
Every birthday, every Christmas, every Father’s Day. They’d arrive in the mail and I’d take them straight to the fireplace.
The ritual was simple. Envelope unopened. Straight into the flames. Watch it curl and blacken. Then get on with my life.
I was good at it by year five. Didn’t even feel anything anymore by year ten.
Then last Tuesday, letter number sixty-three arrived. And something was different.
My father left when I was eight years old. Walked out of our house in his leather vest and told my mother he couldn’t do this anymore. The family thing. The responsibility thing.
He said he needed to ride. Needed to be free.
My mother cried for six months. I stopped crying after the first week. Decided crying was for people who thought he might come back.
He started writing letters two months after he left. The first one came on my ninth birthday. My mom handed me the envelope. “It’s from your father.”
I threw it away without opening it.
By the third letter, I’d upgraded to burning them. Seemed more final.
The letters kept coming. Four, five times a year. Sometimes from California. Sometimes from Texas. Always the same handwriting. Always straight into the fire.
I got married at twenty-four. Didn’t invite him. A letter came anyway. Burned.
My son was born when I was twenty-six. Another letter. Burned.
My mother died when I was thirty. His letter of condolence. Burned.
Seventeen years. Sixty-three letters. Not one of them read.
Until last Tuesday.
Letter sixty-four arrived with a second envelope inside. From a law office.
The law office letter was short. My father had died three weeks ago. Motorcycle accident. He’d left instructions that I receive his final letter.
I sat at my kitchen table staring at that envelope for an hour.
My wife came in. “Are you going to read it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should. Last chance.”
I picked it up. Started toward the fireplace. Habit.
But I stopped.
My son was in the living room. Sixteen years old. He looked at me. “You okay, Dad?”
I looked at the envelope. At my son. At the fireplace that had consumed sixteen years of words.
I opened the letter.
The first line made my knees weak.
“I’m writing this because I’m dying, and you deserve to know the truth about why I left.”
I sat down before I fell down. My hands were shaking. I kept reading.
“You were eight years old when I walked out. Old enough to remember. Old enough to hate me for it. I know you do. I would too.”
“But you need to know something. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I loved you too much to let you watch me die slowly.”
I stopped reading. Reread that line. It didn’t make sense.
“Six weeks before I left, I was diagnosed with ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. The doctors gave me two to five years. They said I’d lose the ability to walk, to talk, to feed myself. Eventually I wouldn’t be able to breathe on my own.”
My chest felt tight. I kept reading.
“Your mother and I talked about it for weeks. She wanted to fight it together. Wanted to keep the family together no matter what. But I couldn’t do that to you. Couldn’t make you watch your father waste away. Couldn’t make you remember me as the man who couldn’t even hold a spoon.”
“So I made a choice. I left. I told your mother I didn’t want the responsibility anymore. Made her hate me. Made you hate me. Because hate is cleaner than grief. Hate gives you something to hold onto.”
I had to stop reading. My vision was blurry. I wiped my eyes and continued.
“I joined a motorcycle club in California. Spent the next two years riding while I still could. Saw the Pacific Ocean. The Grand Canyon. Places I’d always wanted to take you.”
“By year three, I couldn’t ride anymore. My hands didn’t work right. I sold the bike. Moved to a care facility in Arizona.”
“I’ve been here for fourteen years now. Wheelchair-bound for twelve. Lost my voice seven years ago. I type these letters with a computer that tracks my eye movements. Takes me hours to write a single page.”
“I sent you sixty-three letters over seventeen years. I’m guessing you never read any of them. I don’t blame you. Why would you?”
“But I wrote them anyway. Every birthday, I told you how proud I was. Every Christmas, I told you what I remembered about you as a kid. Every Father’s Day, I told you what I hoped you’d become.”
“I wrote about your wedding. About your son. About your mother’s death. Even though you never invited me to any of it.”
“I watched your life from a distance. Your mother sent me pictures sometimes. She never told you. Made me promise not to tell you about the disease. She said you needed someone to be angry at. That anger would help you move forward.”
“She was right. You built a good life. You became a good man. A good father. Everything I hoped you’d be.”
“I’m writing this final letter because I’m at the end now. Weeks, maybe days. And I need you to know the truth.”
“I didn’t abandon you. I set you free.”
“I didn’t stop being your father. I just loved you enough to become the villain in your story so you could be the hero in your own.”
“Every letter I sent was my way of still being there. Still showing up. Even if you burned them all. Even if you never knew.”
“I hope someday you can forgive me. Not for leaving. But for lying about why.”
“You asked me once when you were seven what it meant to be a man. I told you it meant doing hard things even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared.”
“I was so scared the day I left. Scared of the disease. Scared of leaving you. Scared you’d forget me. But I did the hard thing anyway.”
“I hope you understand now. I hope you can look at your son and imagine what you’d do if you had to choose between staying and breaking his heart or leaving and breaking your own.”
“I chose to break my own. Every single day for seventeen years.”
“I love you, son. I always have. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it to your face.”
“But I said it in every letter. Even the ones you burned.”
“Love, Dad”
“P.S. There’s a box at the law office. They’ll give you the address. Inside are copies of all sixty-three letters. In case you want to know what you missed. In case you want to hear your father’s voice one more time.”
I don’t know how long I sat there. Could have been minutes. Could have been hours.
My wife found me still at the table. She saw my face. Saw the letter.
“What did it say?”
I couldn’t speak. Just handed her the letter.
She read it. Started crying halfway through.
When she finished, she looked at me. “Oh my God.”
“He was sick. The whole time. He was dying.”
“And you never knew.”
“I burned his letters. I burned them all.”
My wife pulled me into a hug. I cried for the first time in seventeen years. Cried for my father. For the letters I’d burned. For the years I’d hated a man who was dying alone just to spare me the pain.
The next day, I drove to the law office. They gave me the box. It was bigger than I expected. Heavy.
Inside were sixty-three letters. Printed copies. Organized by date.
I took them home. Locked myself in my study.
And I read every single one.
Letter one, written two months after he left: “Dear son, today is your ninth birthday. I remember when you were born. You were so small. I was so scared I’d break you. But you were strong. You’ve always been strong.”
Letter fifteen, written when I was thirteen: “I heard you made the baseball team. I wish I could have been there to see you play. I bet you’re fast. You always were fast.”
Letter twenty-eight, written when I graduated high school: “Your mother sent me a picture. You looked so grown up in your cap and gown. I barely recognized you. But I’d know your smile anywhere. That’s my smile. You got that from me.”
Letter forty-one, written after my wedding: “I saw pictures. Your bride is beautiful. You looked happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you. To be happy. To have what I couldn’t give you.”
Letter forty-seven, written after my son was born: “You’re a father now. You’ll understand soon what that means. What you’d do for your child. What you’d sacrifice. What you’d give up to keep them from pain.”
Every letter was full of love. Full of pride. Full of a father watching his son from a distance and cheering him on.
Every letter I’d burned without reading.
I read all sixty-three in one sitting. By the end, I was destroyed.
My son found me in the study at midnight. “Dad?”
I looked up at him. Sixteen years old. The same age I’d been when I decided my father was dead to me.
“Come here,” I said.
He sat down. I showed him the letters.
“These are from your grandfather. My father. I thought he abandoned us. Turns out he left because he was dying and didn’t want me to watch.”
My son picked up one of the letters. Started reading.
“He loved you,” my son said quietly.
“Yeah. He did.”
“And you never knew.”
“No. I never let myself know.”
My son was quiet for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone. I can’t apologize. Can’t tell him I understand now. Can’t tell him I’m sorry for hating him.”
“Maybe you can still tell him.”
“How?”
“Same way he told you. Write him a letter.”
So I did.
I wrote my father a letter. The first one I’d ever written to him.
I told him I was sorry. Sorry for burning his letters. Sorry for hating him. Sorry for not understanding.
I told him I got it now. That I have a son and I’d do the same thing if I had to. That I’d break my own heart to spare his.
I told him he was right. That anger did help me move forward. That I built a good life partly because I was trying to prove I didn’t need him.
I told him he was wrong too. That I did need him. That I always needed him. That I wish he’d given me the choice.
But I told him I understood. That I forgive him. That I love him.
I addressed the envelope to heaven. Stupid, I know. But I needed to send it somewhere.
I drove to the cemetery where my mother was buried. Found out my father was buried three plots over. I hadn’t known. Hadn’t bothered to ask.
His headstone was simple. Name. Dates. And one line: “He rode far so his son could fly.”
I sat down in front of his grave. Read him the letter out loud. Left it there weighted down with a rock.
Then I sat there for a long time. Just talking to him. Telling him about my life. About his grandson. About everything he’d missed.
It’s been three months now. I visit his grave every Sunday. Bring him updates. Tell him stories.
Last week, I brought my son with me. Introduced him to the grandfather he never met.
My son read some of the letters. The ones about him. About his birth. About what my father hoped he’d become.
“He sounds cool,” my son said.
“He was. I just didn’t let myself see it.”
“You see it now though.”
“Yeah. I see it now.”
We stood there in front of the grave. Three generations. One missing.
“Dad?” my son asked. “If something happened to you. If you got sick. Would you leave like he did?”
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
“I don’t know. I’d want to spare you the pain. But I also know now what it cost him. What it cost me. Maybe the better answer is to stay and let the people who love you help carry the weight.”
“I think so too.”
“But I understand why he did it. That’s the thing. I finally understand.”
My son put his arm around me. “He’d be proud of you. Of who you became.”
“I hope so.”
“The letters say he was. All sixty-three of them.”
I keep the letters in my study now. Sometimes I reread them. Sometimes I just look at the box and remember.
Remember that love doesn’t always look like staying. Sometimes it looks like leaving. Sometimes it looks like making yourself the villain so your kid can be the hero.
Sometimes it looks like writing sixty-three letters you know will never be read.
My father rode away seventeen years ago. I thought he was running from responsibility.
Turns out he was running toward death alone so I wouldn’t have to watch.
That’s the kind of love that breaks you. The kind that sacrifices everything. The kind that never asks for recognition.
The kind I burned for seventeen years without understanding what I was really destroying.
I can’t get those years back. Can’t unburn those letters. Can’t tell my father I finally understand.
But I can honor what he did. I can tell his story. I can make sure my son knows that his grandfather was a hero, not a coward.
And I can stop burning bridges before I know what I’m really destroying.
That’s what the last letter taught me.
Sometimes the truth is worth waiting for.
Even if it takes seventeen years and sixty-four letters to arrive.
