The air in the shop seemed to drop ten degrees. I wanted to say no. Every instinct in my body, honed by decades of survival, screamed abort. My father, Frank, had never been proud of me. He had only been critical, dismissive, or violently indifferent.

But how do you explain to a nine-year-old that her grandfather is a black hole where light goes to die? You don’t. You let them believe in the fairy tale a little longer.

“Okay,” I lied, forcing a smile that felt like cracked porcelain. “Let’s go show him.”

As we loaded the bike into the trunk of my sedan, I didn’t know I was loading a weapon. I didn’t know that this cobalt blue machine would be the catalyst for the most painful, and necessary, war of my life.