“Just… don’t go fast,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice.
Frank doesn’t respond, just wheels a massive black motorcycle out from the back of the shop. It’s not the same one John rode—this one looks older, more imposing. He hands me a helmet.
“It was John’s,” he says when I hesitate. “I kept it.”
The revelation that Frank has preserved such a personal item of his son’s hits me unexpectedly. I take the helmet, running my fingers over a small chip in the paint that I recognize—a mark John got the first time he laid the bike down in our driveway, a minor spill he’d laughed about later.
Putting it on feels like a betrayal of everything I’ve stood for since John’s death, but also strangely like coming full circle. Frank swings his leg over the motorcycle with the ease of someone who’s done it thousands of times, then looks expectantly at me.
Awkwardly, I climb on behind him, unsure where to put my hands.
“Around my waist,” he instructs, his voice gruff. “Hold on tight. Bike moves, you move with it. Don’t fight it.”
The engine roars to life beneath us, a sound that used to fill me with dread now representing the hope of finding my son. Frank eases out of the parking lot, moving at a deliberately moderate pace that tells me he’s respecting my fear.
We ride slowly through the streets surrounding the shop, then turn onto a narrow path that leads toward a wooded area behind the commercial district. The motorcycle handles the uneven terrain easily, something my sedan couldn’t have managed.
The wind against my face feels strange, intrusive. I keep my arms rigid around Frank’s midsection, maintaining as much distance as possible while still holding on. Every bump and turn makes me tense further.
“Relax,” Frank calls over his shoulder. “You’re fighting the bike.”
I try to loosen my grip slightly, to be less wooden in my posture. As we continue down the trail, I gradually begin to understand what John had tried to explain to me years ago—how a motorcycle moves differently than a car, how it feels more connected to the environment around it.
We emerge from the woods near a small creek that runs behind the industrial park. Frank cuts the engine, and the sudden silence feels oppressive.
“Used to bring John here when he was a kid,” Frank says, surveying the area. “We’d fish in that bend where the water slows down.”
I slide off the motorcycle on shaky legs, removing the helmet. “I didn’t know John fished.”
“Lots of things about him you didn’t know,” Frank says, but there’s no bite to his words, just a soft sadness. “Tommy!” he calls suddenly, his voice echoing against the trees.
We listen. Nothing.
Frank pulls out his phone again, makes another call. “Any word?” he asks the person on the other end. He listens, then: “Keep looking. Call if you see him.” He hangs up and turns to me. “I’ve got friends checking the bus station, the mall, the park.”
“Friends?”
“My motorcycle club,” he says simply.
The idea that a group of bikers is out looking for my son should disturb me, but instead, I feel an unexpected wave of gratitude. More people searching means a better chance of finding Tommy.
“Thank you,” I say stiffly.
Frank nods once, then remounts the bike. “Let’s try the park next. John used to love the old carousel there.”
The next two hours blur together as we check location after location, places that meant something to John or Frank, places a curious twelve-year-old might wander. With each empty site, my anxiety ratchets higher. Night will fall soon, and the thought of Tommy alone in the dark is unbearable.
We stop at a convenience store to check if Tommy has been seen and to grab water—the stress and heat have left us both dehydrated. As Frank pays, his phone rings.
“Sullivan,” he answers. I watch his expression shift, relief flooding his features. “Where?” he asks. “Tell him to stay put. We’re on our way.”
He turns to me. “They found him. He’s at Memorial Park, by the veterans’ monument.”
The relief is so intense I have to lean against the counter. “Is he okay?”
“Seems to be. Got himself turned around, ended up on the other side of town from the shop.” Frank hesitates. “One of my club brothers found him. Guy named Preacher.”
I don’t care who found him at this point. “Let’s go.”
Back on the motorcycle, I find myself less rigid, more willing to move with the machine as Frank navigates through traffic with practiced ease. The park is on the other side of town, and despite my earlier caution, I’m grateful for the motorcycle’s ability to weave through congested streets more efficiently than a car.
Memorial Park comes into view, its central monument—a stone obelisk honoring local veterans—visible from the street. As we pull up, I spot Tommy sitting on a bench beside a massive man with a gray beard even longer than Frank’s. My son looks up at the sound of the motorcycle, his expression a mix of apprehension and curiosity.
I’m off the bike before Frank fully stops, rushing toward Tommy and pulling him into a fierce hug.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” I say into his hair, relief and anger mingling in my voice. “Do you have any idea how worried I was?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Tommy mumbles against my shoulder. “I just wanted to meet him. To know.”
I pull back, holding him at arm’s length to check him over. He seems unharmed, just tired and dusty from his journey.
Frank approaches more slowly, stopping a few feet away as if unsure of his welcome. The man beside Tommy—Preacher, I assume—stands and greets Frank with a brief embrace that involves clapping each other on the back.
“Found him studying the names on the monument,” Preacher says. “Said he was looking for his grandpa’s shop.”
“I got lost,” Tommy admits, looking past me to Frank. “Are you really my grandpa?”
The directness of the question catches us all off guard. Frank’s eyes meet mine briefly, seeking permission I’m not sure I’m ready to give. But after today—after the search, after seeing Tommy’s determination to find this missing piece of his history—I can’t bring myself to deny either of them.
I nod slightly, and Frank steps forward.
“Yeah, buddy. I’m your grandfather.” His voice is rougher than usual. “Been hoping to meet you for a long time.”
Tommy studies him with the intense focus I recognize from when he’s trying to solve a particularly challenging problem. “Why didn’t I know about you before? Mom never said anything.”
The accusation in his tone cuts deep. Frank, surprisingly, comes to my defense.
“Your mom and I had… disagreements. After your dad died.” He chooses his words carefully. “Sometimes grown-ups make decisions they think are best at the time, even if they might seem wrong later.”
Tommy looks between us, processing this diplomatic explanation. “Dad rode motorcycles, didn’t he? That’s how he died.”
The blunt question hangs in the air. I’ve never told Tommy the specifics of John’s accident, letting him believe it was a car crash. Now, facing both Frank and my son, the weight of that omission presses down on me.
“Yes,” I admit finally. “He was riding a motorcycle when he had his accident.”
Tommy nods, as if confirming something he’s already suspected. “Is that why you don’t like Grandpa Frank? Because he rides too?”
The simplicity of the question, the way it cuts to the heart of six years of grief and blame, leaves me momentarily speechless. Frank watches me, his expression carefully neutral, letting me navigate this delicate moment.
“It’s… complicated, Tommy,” I begin, but even as I say it, I realize how inadequate that explanation is. “After your dad died, I was very angry and sad. I needed someone to blame, and the motorcycle seemed like the obvious choice.”
“And Grandpa,” Tommy adds perceptively.
I nod, unable to deny it. “Yes. And Grandpa.”
Frank shifts uncomfortably. “Look, it’s getting late. We should get you two home.” He turns to Preacher. “Thanks for finding him, brother. I owe you one.”
Preacher waves this off. “Family’s family. No debt there.” He offers Tommy a gentle fist bump. “Stay on the main roads next time, kid. And maybe call ahead.”
Tommy returns the gesture, a small smile breaking through his serious expression. “Yes, sir.”
The four of us walk back to where Frank’s motorcycle is parked. A logistical problem presents itself—the bike can carry three in a pinch, but not comfortably or safely.
“I can call for a ride,” I suggest, pulling out my phone.
Frank shakes his head. “No need. Preacher’s got his truck.” He nods to his friend, who produces a set of keys from his pocket.
“Can I ride with Grandpa?” Tommy asks suddenly. “On the motorcycle?”
My immediate instinct is to refuse. To protect Tommy from the very thing that took his father. But the hope in his eyes, the way he looks at Frank’s motorcycle with the same fascination John once did, makes me hesitate.
Frank watches me, waiting. Not pushing, not arguing, just allowing me to make this decision on my own.
I think about the day’s search, how the motorcycle allowed us to cover terrain my car couldn’t have. How, despite my fears, I’d gradually adapted to its movement, even found a certain unexpected peace in the rhythm of the ride.
“You wear a helmet,” I say finally. “And Frank goes slow. Very slow.”
Tommy’s face lights up with the kind of joy I haven’t seen since before John died. Frank’s expression softens in a way that reminds me, painfully, of his son.
“Safety first,” Frank agrees, producing a smaller helmet from his saddlebag. “Always carry a spare,” he explains when I look surprised. “Never know when you might need to give someone a ride.”
I watch as Frank helps Tommy adjust the helmet, showing him how to secure the strap properly, giving him basic instructions on how to sit, where to hold on. The care he takes, the patience in his explanations, reveals a side of Frank I never allowed myself to see before—the teacher, the protector.
“We’ll follow you,” Frank tells me, nodding toward Preacher’s truck. “Just in case you have trouble finding the shop again.”
I climb into Preacher’s pickup, which smells of leather and pipe tobacco. From the passenger window, I watch as Frank mounts the motorcycle, helping Tommy climb on behind him. My son’s arms wrap around his grandfather’s waist, his posture a mirror of how I had ridden earlier—stiff, uncertain.
As they pull away, I hear Frank’s voice: “Relax, buddy. Move with the bike, not against it.”
The same words he’d said to me. The same words, I suddenly realize, John had probably heard from his father decades ago.
Preacher follows at a respectful distance, keeping the motorcycle in view. “Frank’s the safest rider I know,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “Been riding sixty years without a major accident. Your boy’s in good hands.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The sight of Tommy on the back of that motorcycle stirs conflicting emotions—fear, certainly, but also a strange sense of rightness, as if a circle is being completed.
“John was a good rider too,” Preacher continues. “What happened to him—that was just bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. Could’ve happened in a car just as easy.”
I’ve spent six years refusing to hear these words, to consider this perspective. “You knew John well?”
Preacher nods. “Since he was Tommy’s age. Watched him grow up in the shop, learn to ride, go off to college. Frank was real proud of him, you know. Always bragging about his architect son, showing off pictures of the buildings John designed.”
The revelation that Frank had been proud of John’s career choice, rather than resentful of his departure from the motorcycle world, shakes loose something in my understanding of their relationship.
“John used to say you were the best thing that ever happened to him,” Preacher adds. “Frank knew it too, even if he didn’t always show it. After the accident, he…” He hesitates.
“He what?”
“Nearly drank himself to death that first year. Blamed himself for calling John out that day, for the rally. Some of the brothers had to stage an intervention, get him into rehab.”
I absorb this new information, this glimpse into Frank’s grief that I’d never allowed myself to see. In my own pain, I’d cast him as the villain, never considering that he might be suffering as deeply as I was, that he’d lost his only child.
We arrive at the motorcycle shop just as dusk is settling in. Tommy is animated as he slides off the bike, talking excitedly to Frank about the ride. Frank listens attentively, his weathered face softer than I’ve ever seen it.
“Can we do it again sometime?” Tommy asks, looking between Frank and me.
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications about future interactions, about whether this unexpected reunion is a one-time event or the beginning of something new.
Frank doesn’t answer, leaving the decision to me. His eyes meet mine across the parking lot, and I see in them a mixture of hope and resignation, as if he’s prepared for either answer.
“We’ll see,” I say, which is neither a yes nor a no. “It’s been a long day. We should get home.”
Tommy’s face falls slightly, but he nods, handing the helmet back to Frank. “Thanks for the ride, Grandpa.”
“Anytime, buddy,” Frank replies, then seems to catch himself. “Well, anytime your mom says it’s okay.”
The acknowledgment of my authority, the respect for my boundaries, surprises me. The Frank I remember from before John’s death was more likely to push limits than observe them.
Tommy gives Frank an impulsive hug that catches both adults off guard. Frank hesitates only a moment before returning the embrace, his large hand gently patting Tommy’s back.
As we prepare to leave, Frank approaches me, something clutched in his hand. “Nearly forgot. I’ve been keeping this for Tommy. Since the funeral.”
He holds out the same wooden box he’d tried to give me six years ago, the one I’d refused to take. This time, I accept it, feeling the smooth weight of it in my hands.
“What is it?”
“John’s first spark plug,” Frank says. “From the mini-bike we built when he was ten. And his Iron Horsemen pin. Few other mementos.”
The idea that Frank has preserved these pieces of John’s history, waited patiently for years to pass them on to Tommy, adds another crack to the fortress of resentment I’ve built around my heart.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For helping find Tommy today. For…”
“Being decent?” Frank suggests, with a hint of the sardonic humor I recognize from John.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling slightly. “Something like that.”
As Tommy and I drive home, the wooden box sits on the console between us. Tommy keeps glancing at it, curious but not asking to open it yet.
“Grandpa Frank is different than I expected,” he says finally.
“How so?”
He considers this. “From the pictures online, I thought he’d be… scarier. But he’s not scary at all.”
“No,” I agree slowly. “I suppose he’s not.”
“He has pictures of Dad all over his office,” Tommy continues. “I saw them when we got back to the shop. Dad as a kid, Dad graduating, Dad in his architect clothes. And one of you and Dad at your wedding.”
The revelation that Frank keeps a photo of our wedding—a day I remember him attending with reluctance, clearly uncomfortable in the formal setting—catches me off guard.
“He told me Dad was the smartest person he ever knew,” Tommy says. “That he could have done anything, been anything, but he chose to design buildings because he loved creating spaces for people to live and work in.”
Hearing Frank’s assessment of John’s career choice—not as a rejection of his upbringing but as a positive, deliberate decision—forces me to reconsider my assumptions about their relationship.
“Would it be okay if I visited him sometimes?” Tommy asks tentatively. “I promise I won’t run off again. But I want to know about Dad from someone who knew him his whole life.”
The request is reasonable, especially after today’s events. And yet the thought of Tommy spending time in that shop, around motorcycles, around the culture I’ve spent years demonizing, makes my chest tighten with familiar fear.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, which seems to be becoming my standard response to difficult questions today.
That night, after Tommy is asleep, I sit on the edge of my bed and finally open the wooden box Frank gave me. Inside, carefully arranged, are pieces of John’s life I never knew about: the spark plug, worn and darkened with age; a small pin with the Iron Horsemen emblem; a pocketknife with “J.S.” carved into the handle; a faded photograph of a teenage John standing proudly beside a motorcycle, Frank’s arm around his shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera.
Beneath these items is a folded piece of paper. I open it to find a letter in John’s handwriting, dated about a month before his death.
“Dad,” it begins, “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but watching you with Tommy today reminded me of all the good times we had when I was a kid. The shop, the rides, the camping trips. I’m sorry I pulled away for so long. Sorry I made you feel like I was ashamed of where I came from. The truth is, everything good in me—my work ethic, my attention to detail, my sense of loyalty—I learned from you. I hope Tommy grows up knowing his grandfather. Knowing where the Sullivan men come from. Love, John.”
Tears blur my vision as I read the words, hearing John’s voice in my head. This letter, which Frank has kept all these years, reveals a side of my husband’s relationship with his father that I never allowed myself to see—the reconciliation that was happening right under my nose, the appreciation John had developed for his upbringing.
I fold the letter carefully and replace it in the box, along with the other treasures. Then I do something I haven’t done in years—I pull out our old photo albums, the ones I’ve kept hidden away because the memories were too painful.
There, among the carefully curated images of our life together, I find what I’m looking for: pictures from the summer before John’s accident. John standing next to the motorcycle in our driveway, looking so alive, so happy. John and Frank working on the bike together, absorbed in conversation over an engine part. And one I’d forgotten taking—John with Tommy on his lap on the stationary motorcycle, both of them wearing matching grins, Frank watching from the side with unmistakable pride.
The man in these photos doesn’t look trapped or regressing. He looks complete, integrated—the architect and the biker’s son existing comfortably in the same person. Had I been so focused on who I wanted John to be that I couldn’t see who he actually was?
The next morning, I make a decision. After dropping Tommy at school, I drive once again to Sullivan’s Custom Cycles. The shop is open, but empty of customers this early. Frank looks up from behind the counter, surprise evident on his face when he sees me.
“Sarah. Everything okay?”
I nod, taking a deep breath. “I found John’s letter. In the box.”
Frank’s expression softens. “He meant to give it to me in person that Sunday. Never got the chance.”
“I didn’t know… I didn’t understand that you two were finding your way back to each other.”
Frank comes around the counter, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “John loved you and Tommy more than anything. But he was starting to realize he didn’t have to cut off parts of himself to be a good husband and father.”
“And I made him feel like he did,” I acknowledge, the truth of it sitting heavily in my chest.
“You were scared,” Frank says simply. “Fear makes us do things we later regret.”
“Like shutting out my son’s grandfather for six years?” The words come out before I can stop them, an admission of guilt I wasn’t prepared to make.
Frank shrugs. “You did what you thought was right at the time.”
His unexpected grace in the face of my years of rejection disarms me completely. “I was wrong,” I admit. “Tommy deserves to know you. To know who his father really was, all of him.”
Frank watches me carefully, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I can’t promise I’ll ever be comfortable with motorcycles,” I continue. “The thought of Tommy on one still terrifies me. But I don’t want to keep him from knowing his heritage, his family.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Frank asks, his directness reminding me again of John.
“I’m saying… maybe we could start with Sunday dinners. Once a month. At our house.” The offer feels monumental, a bridge across six years of silence and blame.
Frank’s weathered face breaks into a smile that transforms him, making him look suddenly younger, more like the man in those photos with John. “I’d like that,” he says simply.
“And maybe—” I hesitate, the words difficult to form. “Maybe sometimes Tommy could visit the shop. With supervision,” I add quickly. “No riding until he’s older. Much older.”
“Sixteen,” Frank suggests. “Legal riding age. And only after proper training, proper gear.”
“Eighteen,” I counter.
“Seventeen,” he offers. “Same age John was when he got his license.”
The negotiation feels oddly normal, like we’re just two adults working out boundaries for a child we both care about. Not the bitter enemies I’ve cast us as for so long.
“Fine. Seventeen. But with professional lessons, not just you teaching him in the parking lot.”
Frank raises his hands in mock surrender. “Full safety course. I’ll pay for it myself.”
A moment of awkward silence falls between us, the weight of six years of estrangement impossible to dispel in one conversation.
“John would be happy about this,” Frank says finally. “About Tommy knowing both sides of his heritage.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Yes. He would.”
As I turn to leave, Frank calls after me, “Sarah? Thank you. For giving me a second chance with my grandson.”
“Thank you for finding him yesterday,” I reply. “And for… for keeping those pieces of John safe all these years. For Tommy.”
Outside, I pause to look back at the shop, seeing it with new eyes. Not as the den of dangerous influences I’d imagined for so long, but as a place where John had found connection with his father, where part of his identity had been formed.
The motorcycles lined up outside still make me uneasy. I suspect they always will. But I’m beginning to understand that my fear doesn’t have to define Tommy’s relationship with his grandfather, or with his father’s memory.
As I drive away, I realize that what I’m feeling isn’t exactly peace—the grief and anger are too deeply rooted for that—but something like acceptance. An acknowledgment that life is more complex than the black-and-white narrative I’ve constructed, that people are more than the single story we tell about them.
That Sunday, when Frank’s motorcycle rumbles into our driveway for dinner, Tommy races out to meet him. I watch from the window as my son listens, fascinated, while his grandfather explains something about the engine. Frank’s hands move expressively, his face animated in a way it never was around me.
For a moment, I see John in both of them—in Tommy’s attentive posture, in Frank’s passionate explanation. Three generations of Sullivan men, connected by more than just blood or a love of motorcycles, but by a way of engaging with the world—hands-on, fully present, unafraid to get a little grease under their fingernails.
The sight brings tears to my eyes, but not the bitter ones I’ve shed for years. These feel different—cleansing, almost. Like the beginning of healing.
I take a deep breath and step outside to join them, ready to build a new kind of family from the broken pieces of the old one. It won’t be easy. The road ahead will have its rough patches, its unexpected turns. But for the first time in six years, I’m willing to take the journey, to see where it leads.
For Tommy. For John’s memory. And maybe, just maybe, for myself as well.
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