I always thought my mother was the picture of perfection—the kind of woman who baked pies for neighbors and kept her garden immaculate. So when she showed up at my house on a roaring Harley after her divorce, I was mortified. What would the neighbors think?
That day started like any other. My neighbor Nancy and I were chatting in my pristine garden when the rumble of an engine cut through our conversation. We both turned to see a leather-clad figure parking a motorcycle in front of my house. When the rider removed her helmet, I nearly gasped—it was my 63-year-old mother.
“Mom!” I hissed, rushing her inside. “What are you doing? People will talk!”
Her response changed everything. “Julia,” she said quietly, “I spent my whole life being the perfect wife and mother. Now, for the first time, I’m doing something for me.”
In that moment, I saw my mother—and myself—differently. Her motorcycle wasn’t just a midlife crisis; it was her declaration of freedom. And strangely, it freed me too. I realized I didn’t need to be perfect either. Sometimes, the best lessons come on two wheels.
