College was culture shock. Kids with trust funds and summer homes couldn’t understand the boy who got dropped off by a motorcycle gang.

I stopped mentioning Mike, stopped talking about home. When my roommate asked about my family, I said my parents were dead.

It was easier than explaining that my father figure was a biker who’d technically kidnapped me from a dumpster.
Law school was worse. Everyone networking, talking about connections, their lawyer parents.

When they asked about mine, I mumbled about blue-collar work. Mike came to my graduation, wearing his only suit – bought special for the occasion – with his motorcycle boots because dress shoes hurt his feet.
I was ashamed when my classmates stared. I introduced him as “a family friend” when my study group asked.

He never said anything about it. Just hugged me, told me he was proud, and rode eight hours home alone.
I got a job at a top firm. Stopped visiting the shop as much. Stopped answering calls from the club. I was building a respectable life, I told myself. The kind of life that would never land me in a dumpster.

Then, three months ago, Mike called.

“Not asking for me,” he said, which is how he always started when asking for help.

“But the city’s trying to shut us down. Saying we’re a ‘blight’ on the community. Bringing down property values. They want to force me to sell to some developer.”

Forty years, Mike had run that shop. Forty years of fixing bikes for people who couldn’t afford dealer prices.

Forty years of quietly helping runaways like me, though I learned later I wasn’t the first or the last kid to find safety in his back room.

“Get a lawyer,” I said.

“Can’t afford one good enough to fight city hall.”
I should have offered immediately. Should have driven down that night. Instead, I said…….

“I’m swamped right now, Mike. I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”

The silence afterward was the kind that hits you in the chest.
He didn’t sigh. Didn’t plead. Didn’t scold.

He just said, gently:

“Yeah. I figured. Take care, kid.”

And then he hung up.
I didn’t call back.

Option 2 — Harsh Mistake

“I can’t get involved in… whatever this is. I have a career now.”

The words tasted like poison even as I said them.

There was a pause. A long one. Long enough for regret to bloom, then rot.

Then Mike said, voice low, steady:

“Right. Wouldn’t want us messing that up.”

He didn’t yell. Didn’t guilt-trip. That made it worse.

Option 3 — The Line He Never Crossed

“Mike… you know I can’t be the club’s lawyer.”

I tried to sound firm. All I heard was cowardice.

But Mike just replied:

**“Didn’t ask for the club, kid. I asked for me.”
**
That was the first time he’d ever said anything like that.
The first time he let himself want something from me.

And still—I didn’t go.