At the funeral, they asked me to speak. I stood before a sea of leather jackets and tear-streaked faces, my throat tight.
“This man,” I said, “was not my father by blood. But he saved me when I was fourteen, and no one else would. He gave me food, a home, rules, and love without ever asking for anything in return. He taught me to work with my hands, and he believed I could do more. And I… I betrayed that faith by being ashamed of him.”
My voice cracked. “But today, I promise you this: the city will not erase his legacy. Not while I still have breath.”
It has been three months since Mike passed. By day, I wear a suit and argue in court. By night, I sit in his old chair at the shop, drafting appeals, gathering evidence, preparing to fight the developer.
The bikers call me Licenciado now, the lawyer.
But when I look in the mirror, I still see the scared fourteen-year-old kid who was saved by a man with a beard down to his chest and tattoos on his arms who said five simple words:
“Are you hungry, kid? Come in.”
And this time, I won’t let him down.
