I checked the reflection in my chrome mirrors. I looked like a nightmare to these soccer moms in their white SUVs. My “cut” (leather vest) was weathered, the patch on the back—a snarling iron dog—was faded from sun, rain, and road fights. My arms were covered in ink that told stories nobody in this zip code would understand.

My beard was grey at the chin now. My eyes were harder.

But my heart? It was beating out of my chest for one person. Lily.

She was ten when I went away. She’s thirteen now.

Does she still like purple? Does she still listen to Taylor Swift? Does she hate me?

I killed the engine at the back of the lot. The sudden silence was heavy. I swung a leg over the seat, my heavy boots crunching on the gravel.

I lit a cigarette—I know, not allowed on school grounds, but I’ve never been big on rules—and waited.

I just wanted to see her walk out. I wanted to see if she walked like me. Head up. Shoulders back.

The bell rang. The doors burst open. Chaos.