MY PARENTS SAID SHE IS TOO BIG FOR ME, BUT THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM ABOUT TO DO
People always think they know what’s best for you—especially parents. They see danger where you see opportunity, impossibility where you see potential, and limits where you feel nothing but fire. That was the situation seventeen-year-old Jordan found himself in, standing at the edge of his family’s driveway, staring down the street where she lived.
“She’s too big for you, son.”
That’s what his father said the first time he saw her.
His mother had put it more gently but still with the same verdict:
“You’re not ready for something like that. People will laugh at you.”
They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. Because they saw only what their eyes allowed them to see—the surface, the appearance, the obvious. But Jordan saw something entirely different.
They were talking about Phoenix, the sleek, black, gleaming motorcycle parked in a neighbor’s garage.
To everyone else, Phoenix was just a machine—powerful, heavy, and “too much” for a kid like him. But to Jordan, she was a promise. Freedom. Speed. A dream he’d carried since the first time he heard the low, thunderous purr of her engine.
The neighbor, Mr. Lang, had been fixing up the bike for years. Whenever Jordan passed by, he’d catch glimpses of it—polished chrome, smooth curves, the kind of beauty only someone with passion in their blood could appreciate. And every time, his heart tugged as if the bike was calling to him.
But last week, something happened. Something big.
Mr. Lang put a FOR SALE sign on Phoenix.
Jordan stared at it for ten minutes straight, pulse racing, palms sweaty, mind spinning with possibilities. But when he told his parents about it at dinner, the response was immediate and brutal.
