I still can’t believe how it all started. This photo was taken just seconds before everything went downhill. My father had just turned off the engine of his brand-new motorcycle, beaming like a kid who just got a gift. And me — I was holding back my rage.
— Did you really buy it? For thirty-five thousand? — I almost shouted, barely believing what I was hearing.
He just nodded, stroking the handlebars like they were sacred.
— This is my last great adventure, — he said with a smile.
Last great adventure… And what about me? My debts, my loans, my life falling apart?
My father worked in a garage all his life, saving money. He’s 73 now, and I’m 34. Every month, I watch him waste all his money while his daughter drowns in debt.
I begged him. Tried to convince him to give me the money. I made my case. He just laughed:
— At my age, you have to live for today. You’ll have your chance. I won’t.
I sold his motorcycle. Secretly. Through a friend. Quickly, before he could leave for his “trip across the country.”
I paid off all my loans. I got my peace back. I got my future back.
But my father… He lost it. He screamed, shouted, called me a traitor. Said I had stolen his last dream. He was shaking. I had never seen him like that.
Then — silence. He collapsed onto the couch, clutching his chest. We barely made it in time to call the ambulance.
The doctors said — stress, high blood pressure, heart issues. He was lucky to survive.
Since then, he’s been in the hospital. Going through rehab. And strangely enough — he’s not angry. He’s quiet. Sometimes he looks out the window and whispers: “I’ll get back up. I’ll buy another motorcycle. Even if it’s just $100. I’ll ride anyway.”
And me… I don’t regret anything.
Now I have a clean credit history. I sleep peacefully. I can plan my life again.
And he… he can keep dreaming. A dream isn’t a motorcycle. A dream is a luxury when you have grown children drowning in debt.
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