Growing up, I often felt ashamed of my father’s job. While my friends boasted about their parents who were doctors, lawyers, or businessmen, my dad worked in a small, dusty garage fixing motorcycles. His hands were always stained with grease, his clothes worn and stained from years of hard work. To me, this was a constant reminder that we were different—and not in a way I wanted to admit.
I kept his job a secret at school, afraid my classmates would judge me or think less of my family. In my eyes, he didn’t fit the mold of what “success” looked like.My father missed many dinners, school plays, and events, always reassuring me with a simple, “I’m doing what I love, kid.” But as a child, I couldn’t understand how fixing motorcycles could bring anyone joy.
I envied the polished lives my friends seemed to lead—their parents dressed in suits, driving shiny cars, sending them to expensive private schools. Meanwhile, I spent my summers working alongside my dad in that cluttered garage, hoping to earn enough to help pay for my college tuition.When I turned sixteen, he surprised me by offering to buy me a motorcycle.
I rejected the idea outright. I wanted a car—something that would fit in with my friends, something “normal.” His face fell, and for a moment, I saw the hurt behind his eyes. He said quietly, “It’s not just about the bike. It’s about learning the value of hard work, and earning something with your own hands.” But I was too young and too caught up in my own embarrassment to see what he meant.