Later that night, after the champagne toasts and forced smiles, I stepped outside my dorm. On the doorstep sat a small, battered wooden box—plain, unwrapped, waiting.
My pulse quickened. I brought it inside and shut the door, anger burning through me as I kicked it open. Inside was no cheap trinket—just an old, leather-bound journal, its cover cracked, tied with string.
The first entry caught my eye:
08/14/2015
Job: Run to El Paso (Medical Supplies)
Pay: $900
For: Katie’s braces.
Page after page—dates, jobs, payments. Every dollar he’d earned, every mile he’d ridden, every sacrifice made for me. The rides weren’t random—they were pieces of his life, written in ink and sweat. He wasn’t just surviving; he was working for me. For my future.
As I flipped through, the handwriting grew shakier. Then came the last entry:
05/20/2024
Job: Boston Run – Winter (Pharmaceuticals)
Pay: $3,000
For: Harvard – Final Semester.
Tucked into the back cover was a doctor’s note:
“Continued motorcycle operation will result in permanent disability and chronic pain. Immediate cessation required.”
The date was three years ago.
