I Love My Biker Father More Than Anything But What He Did On My Wedding Day Destroyed Me

That bike became my whole world. But not as much as the man who taught me to ride it.

Dad—everyone calls him Hawk because of his sharp eyes and the way he watches over people—raised me alone after Mom left. He worked construction during the day, rode with the Iron Guardians MC on weekends, and never once missed a single moment of my life that mattered.

Every school play, every parent-teacher conference, every scraped knee, every broken heart. He was there. Always in his leather vest, his grey beard braided, his massive frame somehow the gentlest presence in any room when I needed him.

When I met Danny three years ago at a bike rally, Dad was the first person I told. Danny rode a Kawasaki Vulcan, worked as an EMT, and understood what motorcycles meant to me. Dad liked him immediately. They’d spend hours talking about bikes, riding together, working on engines in our garage.

Six months ago, Danny proposed at the same rest stop where Dad had taught me to do my first solo highway merge. Dad cried harder than I did.

We planned a small wedding. Fifty people, backyard ceremony, nothing fancy. But the one thing that mattered most to me was having Dad walk me down the aisle. I’d dreamed about it since I was a little girl—my big, scary-looking biker father in a suit, giving me away to the man I loved.
The morning of the wedding, Dad was acting strange. He kept checking his phone, stepping outside to take calls, his face tight with worry. I asked him three times if everything was okay.

“Everything’s perfect, baby girl,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Today’s the best day of my life.”Continue reading…