I found my father’s suicide note while digging through his motorcycle saddlebag, looking for an old grocery list. Instead, I pulled out a folded piece of paper dated just three hours earlier.
He wrote:
“By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. The cancer wins. The VA failed me again. Tell the brothers I rode till the end. — Frank.”
My hands shook as I looked around the empty garage. His helmet was still warm on the workbench, fresh oil stains marked the concrete. But his Harley was gone.
According to the note, he should already be dead.
I was about to call 911 when my phone rang. It was the children’s hospital across town.
“Mr. Morrison? Your father is here… with about thirty other bikers. He says you’ll want to see this, but he won’t tell us what’s happening.”
The nurse’s voice trembled, unsure. “He just keeps saying he changed his mind about something important.”
I drove like a madman. My chest hurt. My father had stage four lung cancer, denied treatment twice by the VA. His savings were gone, his house was being foreclosed. I knew things were bad, but not this bad. He had always hidden his pain behind a leather jacket and a smirk, pretending life hadn’t beaten him.
When I pulled into St. Mary’s Children’s Hospital, the parking lot was full of motorcycles — dozens of them, all flying the Patriot Riders MC patch.
His Harley was parked right near the entrance, helmet hanging from the handlebar like always.
Inside, chaos — but not the kind I expected. The lobby was filled with bikers carrying boxes of toys, blankets, and care packages. My father’s brothers were laughing with kids, some bald from chemo, some in wheelchairs, their eyes bright as the bikers handed out gifts.
I pushed through the crowd, searching for him.
One of the older riders saw me. His eyes softened. He nodded toward the chapel. “He wanted to see you last.”
My throat tightened as I walked down the quiet hallway.
There he was — sitting at the front of the small chapel, the sunlight spilling across the worn leather of his jacket. His oxygen tank sat beside him, the tube still in his nose. In his lap was a child’s drawing — a stick figure man on a motorcycle, with the words “Thank you, Mr. Frank” scrawled in crayon.
He looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
I ran forward — but his chest wasn’t moving. His hand was cold.
The doctors said he must have died minutes before I arrived.
On the seat beside him lay a note, shorter this time, written in shaky handwriting:
“I wanted to go out riding… but then I thought, maybe I could ride for them instead. Tell them I changed my mind. Tell them I did one good thing before I left.”
The sound of motorcycles outside echoed like thunder, a final salute.
I fell to my knees beside him, tears blurring everything. He didn’t die on the side of the road like he planned. He died surrounded by the sound he loved most — engines rumbling, laughter in the distance, and the soft voices of children he’d just given hope to.
He rode till the end.
Just… not the way he thought he would.
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