My 73-year-old father just drained his retirement savings to buy a $35,000 Harley-Davidson instead of helping me with my mounting debt.
He called it his “last great adventure,” as if that justifies ignoring his only daughter’s financial struggles.
For fifty years, he toiled away in a greasy motorcycle repair shop, his hands stained with oil, always reeking of cigarettes. He embarrassed me in front of my friends with his old tattoos and biker gear.
After finally selling the shop, I assumed he’d do something sensible—like help me with a down payment on the condo I’ve been eyeing.
Instead, he blew the money on a shiny motorcycle and planned a cross-country road trip.
When I confronted him, he just chuckled and said, “Sweetheart, at my age, all crises are end-of-life crises.”
As if turning 73 excuses ignoring me. I’m 42 and drowning in bills, while he’s chasing open roads and sunsets like he’s still twenty.
I’ve had to cancel vacations and pick up extra shifts, all while he brags about “answering the call of the highway.” My friends agree—parents who have the means should help their kids. But Dad insists this trip is his reward for a life of hard work.