My son told the world that his biker father was dead because he was ashamed of me. And now, I’m the only one standing over him as he dies.
In a cold hospital room, I kiss my son’s forehead while machines breathe for him. The last thing he said to me—three weeks before the accident—was, “I wish you really were dead.”
Three weeks ago feels like another lifetime. Before the call from a number I didn’t recognize. Before an ICU nurse looked at me like I was lying when I said, “I’m his father.” According to the paperwork he filled out, his father was listed as deceased.
