My Daddy's Gun

My uncle was the last born. Mum's little brother.

The wild one.

Always getting his way, always getting into something.

He drank too much, talked too loud, and talked like the world owed him something.

My dad couldn’t stand him.

The feeling was mutual.

One day, it boiled over.

They clashed over taking my brother for a ride while drunk. My uncle started talking reckless. The back and forth excalated.

I just stood there.

Watching.

Mum was crying. Loud.

Dropped to her knees, praying in tongues.

She always did that when things felt spiritual, dangerous, or both.

My uncle stormed out, left a warning hanging in the air. He said something about killing my dad when he gets back.

He had a sugar-mum he was living with down the road so he was going to be back soon.

My dad walked past my praying mum into his bedroom.

When he came out, he looked at me.

Smirked.

Not a joke-smirk.

One of those quiet, crooked grins that said, “Watch this.”

In his hand, tucked low and casual, was a gun.

Then he stepped outside.

Sat at the porch, waiting, calm like still water.

By the time my uncle came back, the house had filled up.

Mum had made the calls.

Her brothers. Neighbors. Cousins.

Everyone showed up to stop something.

Nothing happened.No shots. No blood.

The crowd cooled them off.

But I remember that smirk.

My dad was ready.

That same uncle? He’s a pastor now.

Preaching forgiveness.

Life..