I am eleven, home alone, and every creak of the floor and tat-tat-tat of the radiator sends a jolt of fear through my body. I run to the bedroom my parents shared before Mom moved out to live with my future stepfather. I’m ready to dial 9-1-1. When the intruder doesn’t appear, I call the number for my father’s beeper instead. He’s on a date or at a bar sipping ginger ale. An operator whose kind voice I’ll remember thirty years from now speaks before I can tell her the message. “I know, sweetie,” she says. “Daddy, please come home.”
Brad Snyder’s writing has appeared in HuffPost Personal, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Sweet Lit, The Gay & Lesbian Review, and elsewhere. www.bradmsnyder.com Instagram: @bradmsnyderwriting