At twelve, I “killed off” my biker father, Marcus “Tank” Richardson, because parents at school called his club criminal and kept their kids from me. In truth, he’d gone to prison for seven years after refusing a plea deal that required snitching on his brothers. Mom divorced him, moved us away, and I rebuilt myself as Emma Mitchell—the girl with a tragic, respectable origin instead of a living ex-con for a dad.
I kept the lie through high school, college, even an engagement to a senator’s son. When Dad tried to see me—at graduation, at parents’ weekend—I had security remove him. Then, a week before my wedding, a hospital called: he was alive, had stage-four brain cancer, and had listed me as his emergency contact. I went at 2 AM expecting excuses and found a smaller man with my eyes—and a table of photos he’d collected of me over the years.
He told me why he’d refused the deal: the “robbery money” he’d held was $30,000 the club raised for his late friend’s daughter’s leukemia. If he’d testified, the government would have seized it; the kid might’ve died. He chose prison so she could live—she’s now a nurse. We talked for days. My fiancé balked at the truth and left. The club came, told stories of toy runs, veterans’ rides, and the girl Dad’s sacrifice saved. Two weeks later, I held his hand as he died.
At the funeral, three hundred Harleys thundered while my father—flawed, loyal, and loving—was laid to rest. I wear his tailored cut now and ride; the rest of his small estate went to childhood cancer research. In med school, when people ask about my dad, I tell the truth: he was a biker and an ex-con who paid for his mistakes and loved me enough to let me hate him until I was ready. I’m Emma Richardson—a biker’s daughter—and that’s more than enough.
