At sixteen, I thought I knew my father, Mike Harrison, too well. To me, he was the loud biker dad with the Harley

that embarrassed me daily. My mother had left when I was thirteen, blaming that motorcycle for stealing his attention.

Every morning began with its roar, every weekend with charity rides or club meetings, and every school event was

overshadowed by his dramatic arrivals. Tired of it, I called 911 one morning to file a noise complaint against him.

I expected support, but when the officer arrived, he saluted my dad and spoke like an old friend. Then he showed

me a photo of his daughter, Lily, in a hospital bed clutching a teddy bear in a leather vest. Four years earlier,

she had needed a kidney transplant—and my father, a stranger then, had donated his own. Since that day, he had ridden her to every appointment.

The Harley’s roar, which I despised, was Lily’s reminder she was alive. I soon learned his motorcycle club

raised money for sick children, delivered medication, and supported families. Riding with him later,

I saw kids cheer at his engine’s sound. What embarrassed me most had been a symbol of sacrifice all along.