A short work of fiction inspired by my father. He’s been on my mind lately.

I had to call my brother.

“Brady, I don’t know where to start. I need to figure out how to tell you.”

In his usual fashion, he said, “You want me to call you back in two weeks so you can figure it out?”

He is such a brat, but in the most fun way.

“What is it, Sis?”

“Brady, I received a letter from Dad saying he is still alive.”

“What? No. This has to be a sick joke.”

“I know, Bro. But what if…”

“Are you home now?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll be right over.”

I had not moved since I hung up the phone. I sat there in shock, reading the letter over and over, as if the repetition would make the words different. 

He was the only one who ever used that name, and there it was.

Hello Sweet Ruckus, 

Guess what? I am still here.

You must keep this to yourself. I mean that. No one is to know, except Brady, and he must understand the same.

This isn’t secrecy for drama. It’s necessity. My safety depends on it.

I’ll explain everything when I see you. Until then, trust me and stay quiet.

The knock felt more like a pounding, sharp enough to pull me back into the present.

“Hold on, Brady. I’m coming.”

I rushed toward the door, the letter still clenched in my hand, its edges bent now.

When I opened it, they were there.

Brady.

And my dad.

For a breathless second, I questioned it. There was something in his expression, maybe a pause, but I pushed it aside. 

I rushed into him, burying my face against his chest, tears spilling freely, soaking the floor beneath us. His arms closed around me, strong and familiar, the kind of embrace that once made the world feel manageable.

Just as his arms tightened and I let myself sink into him,

I woke up.

It felt so real. I still feel held by him.