I’m a biker who’s never taken his daughter’s Christmas stocking down. It’s been hanging on my mantle for nine years. Right next to mine. Waiting.
Katie left when she was nineteen. Said she was ashamed of me. Said she wanted a father who wore a suit to work, not leather. A father her friends wouldn’t stare at. A father who didn’t make people cross the street.
I wrote her letters every month for the first three years. Thirty-six letters. She never opened one. I know because I sent them certified. They all came back “refused.”
