My family abandoned my biker grandfather at a resort, sticking him with a $12,000 bill after five days of luxury because they assumed a 74‑year‑old Harley rider wouldn’t know how to fight back.
When I walked into that lobby and saw him—the man who raised me after my parents passed, who worked over five decades as a machinist to provide for everyone, who still proudly rides his 1987 Harley every Sunday—standing there holding a bill he could never afford while trying not to cry, something inside me burned. Continue reading…
