Dear Ana,
If you are reading this, it means I am already on the other side of the road. I know these are not the words you would want to read from me right now, but they are the only ones I ever knew how to write.
I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you wanted to have as a father. That I made you blush when I presented myself as I was. And most of all, that I left you with the impression that I wasn’t proud of you.
The truth is, I was — every moment. But I didn’t know how to say it.
I was raised by your grandfather in a village in the Apuseni Mountains. A stern man, few words. He told me that “men don’t cry and don’t lament.” When you came into this world, I felt my heart — that of a silent and grumpy man — melt, but I didn’t know how to show it to you.
All I could do was fix your bike, leave sandwiches in the fridge, and check your car’s oil when you weren’t looking.
When you rejected me at graduation, I understood. And I didn’t judge you. It just hurt that I wasn’t enough.
In this package, you will find the key to my workshop. I wrote down all the combinations for the cabinets in a notebook. You will also find a small box — it’s your grandfather’s watch. He had it during the war. I’ve worn it since I was 18. Now it’s yours.
But the most important thing is those pages bound with my orange bandana. There, I noted day by day, thoughts for you. For years. Nothing pretentious. Just words I didn’t know how to say out loud.
I love you, Ana. More than you could ever imagine. And I am proud of you. I always have been.
With love,
Frank
I read that letter dozens of times. The pages, yellowed and with oil stains, told the story of me — my first day of school, my first fever, my first serious fight. He had written them like a journal, but every line was for me.
In one notebook, I also found a sketch of a motorcycle with a sidecar — “For when Ana gathers the courage to ride with me,” it said under the drawing.
I cried.
Not because he had died. But because I was just now getting to know him truly.
The next day, I went down to the workshop. In the middle, covered with a tarp, was his shiny, clean Harley, ready to hit the road. On the handlebars, tied with a rusty wire, was a note:
“For Ana. Don’t be afraid of who you are.”
Today, that motorcycle is parked in my garage. And every August 3rd, his birthday, I hit the road wearing his orange bandana.
Not because I am a motorcyclist.
But because, finally, I am my father’s daughter.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
