My mother was the neighborhood darling—always baking, gardening, and keeping up appearances. So when she rolled up to my house on a Harley Davidson after her divorce, I thought my reputation was ruined.
That afternoon, my neighbor Nancy and I were discussing my parents’ separation when the growl of an engine interrupted us. There sat my 63-year-old mother, clad in leather, looking like she’d stepped out of a movie. I was horrified. What would the Joneses think?
But as Mom explained, this bike represented her first act of true independence after decades of people-pleasing. “I finally get to choose who I want to be,” she said.
Her courage was contagious. That Harley didn’t just give my mother freedom—it gave me permission to stop striving for perfection too. Now when the neighbors visit, they don’t just get cookies. They get the real, imperfect us—and that’s sweeter than any pie.
