I Hate Being Called a Biker — My Own Kids Won’t Let Me See My Grandchildren.
I hate being called a biker. There—I said it. Sixty-seven years old, and I finally admitted the truth that’s been eating me alive for the past decade: my kids won’t let me meet my grandchildren. I’ve carried this silently, hidden under leather, pride, and everything I thought made me strong. But the wound never fades—it…
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