Growing up, I wished my life had a bit more… refinement. My best mate Sophie’s dad was a consultant in a posh London firm. Another girl’s mum was a high-flying barrister. Their homes smelled of lavender diffusers and fresh linen. Their parents wore tailored suits, drove sleek German cars, and never had a speck of oil on their fingers.
And then there was my dad—Geoff.
A bloke who fixed motorbikes for a living. Covered in tattoos, hands permanently stained with grease, scuffed Doc Martens that had seen better days. He’d thunder up to my school on his battered old Triumph, his beard flapping like a windsock, his leather jacket crusted with grime like he’d just crawled out from under a lorry.
He mortified me.
I remember once, in Year 9, ducking behind the school gates when he showed up to fetch me. My friend Emily peered at him and said, “Is that your dad?”
“Nah,” I lied quickly. “That’s just Geoff. Bloke from the local garage.”
I never called him “Dad” in public. Barely even at home. “Geoff” kept things at arm’s length. Made it easier to pretend I wasn’t the daughter of a man who spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease rather than sipping espresso in some posh office.
He never minded. Not once.
When I spun tall tales about my family for school assignments, he’d just grin. “Whatever makes you happy, love,” he’d say, though there was always a flicker of hurt in his eyes.
The last time I saw him alive was my graduation.
It should’ve been a proud day. He arrived in his least-torn jeans and a faded checked shirt I hadn’t seen since my nan’s birthday. He’d even trimmed his beard and slicked back his hair. I spotted him hovering by the other parents, looking hopelessly out of place, clutching a bunch of daisies in his rough, grease-lined hands.
All around him, my friends’ parents were in designer dresses and sharp suits, their watches glinting, chatting effortlessly with professors. And then there was Geoff—my walking, breathing reminder of everything I’d been trying to outrun.
When the ceremony ended and everyone surged forward, he moved toward me, arms open.
“Dead proud of you, sweetheart,” he said, voice wobbling.
I took a step back and stuck out my hand. “Cheers, Geoff,” I mumbled.
His smile slipped for half a second. He stared at my hand like it was a foreign object. But he shook it, nodded, and kept quiet.
Three weeks later, the call came.
Bike crash. Over in an instant. No suffering, they said.
I didn’t cry. Not at first. Told myself there was no need—we weren’t close. He’d lived his life. I was moving on.
But the funeral… that was another story.
I expected a handful of relatives, maybe his old mate, Dave, from the bike shop. Instead, the chapel was rammed. People I’d never met packed the pews—gruff bikers in scuffed leathers, lads with red-rimmed eyes, elderly women clutching tattered photos, young mums holding toddlers.
I stood there, gobsmacked, as person after person came up to me.
A bloke with a military haircut gripped my hand. “Your dad came round every week after my lad got hurt in the army. Never missed a visit. Brought him biscuits and copies of *Bike Magazine*.”
An old woman pulled me into a hug. “Geoff fixed my boiler when I couldn’t scrape together the cash. Even dropped off shepherd’s pie when I was poorly. Who does that these days?”
A scrawny teenager wiped his nose. “He taught me how to replace a clutch. Helped me land my first job. Said I was worth something, even when no one else did.”
And they kept coming.
“He organised a food bank when our street flooded last winter.”
“He kept the youth club from shutting down when the council cut funding.”
“He never banged on about himself. Just got on with helping people.”
I stood there, gutted. They knew him better than I ever had.
That night, I went to his garage. The work light was still on. His tools were laid out like treasures—every spanner gleaming, every nut and bolt in its rightful place. On the wall, between grease-stained manuals and old posters, was a photo of me.
Five years old, perched on his shoulders, giggling, a tiny pink helmet slipping over my eyes. Both of us grinning like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.
I crumpled to the floor and cried like I’d lost something I hadn’t even known I had.
On his bench, I found an envelope. My name scrawled in his messy handwriting.
*Love,*
*If you’re reading this, I reckon I’ve kicked the bucket. Hope I got to say how proud I was of you, how much I loved you—always. I know I made you cringe. Saw it. Felt it. Never blamed you. You wanted more. I wanted that for you.*
*But fixing bikes wasn’t just about engines. It was about giving folks a way to keep going. You were always what kept me going.*
*Don’t waste time regretting. Just live well.*
*The Triumph’s yours now. Take her out if you fancy.*
*Dad.*
That letter broke something in me wide open.
I spent weeks clearing out his garage. Not because I had to, but because I needed to be near him. Learned how to check the oil, change the plugs. Played his old Clash albums, the ones he’d whistle along to while tinkering. And then, one Sunday morning, I took the Triumph out.
It scared the life out of me at first—the growl of the engine, the wind howling past, the way the world whipped by in a blur.
But then I heard his voice in my head.
*”Steady, love. Lean into the bend.”*
And I did.
Now, I ride every Sunday. Down winding country lanes, through sleepy villages, over the same humpback bridge he used to cross every day. I stop at the café where he’d always leave a fiver “for the next bloke.” I keep a photo of him in my jacket, right over my heart.
And when anyone asks about the bike, I grin and say, “WAS MY DAD’S.”
Because I’m not ashamed of him anymore. I carry him with me, mile after mile.
He wasn’t a barrister. Wasn’t some big-shot CEO.
HE WAS A MECHANIC. A FIXER. A BLOODY GOOD MAN.
And the best dad I never knew I had—until it was nearly too late.
