The biker stared at him.

“My father died before I was born.”

The officer shook his head.

“That’s what she was told.”

Margaret’s face collapsed.

“Stop.”

Her son looked at her.

“Mom?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

The officer stepped closer, suddenly no longer defensive.

“My father worked this diner forty-eight years ago.”

Margaret gripped the edge of the booth.

The biker frowned.

“What does that have to do with me?”

The officer reached into his wallet and pulled out an old photograph.

Three young people stood outside the same diner.

Margaret.

A young police officer.

And a man who looked almost exactly like the biker.

His breathing changed.

“Who is he?”

Margaret began crying.

The officer answered quietly.

“My uncle.”

The biker stared at him.

“Your uncle?”

“He disappeared before I was born.”

Margaret finally looked at her son.

“He didn’t disappear.”

Her voice broke.

“He was sent away.”

“By who?”

She looked at the officer.

“His family.”

The biker’s jaw tightened.

“Why?”

Margaret reached for his hand.

“Because I was a waitress.”

Silence.

“His parents said I wasn’t good enough for their son.”

The biker looked back at the photograph.

“And he never came back?”

Margaret shook her head.

“He tried.”

The officer lowered his eyes.

“My father found letters after my grandparents died.”

The biker went still.

“What letters?”

“Dozens.”

The officer looked at Margaret.

“Every one of them was addressed to you.”

Her lips trembled.

“I never got them.”

“I know.”

The biker stared at the man he had almost hated seconds earlier.

The officer swallowed.

“My uncle spent his whole life believing you chose not to answer.”

Margaret covered her mouth.

Then the officer said the part neither of them expected.

“He died last month.”

The biker’s face hardened with grief.

But the officer continued.

“And before he died, he left everything he had…”

He looked directly at the biker.

“…to the son he never got to meet.”