While waiting at the airport, I noticed a young boy, around six years old, wandering alone. He looked scared, clutching his backpack tightly. I approached him gently and asked, “You alright?”

His name was Tommy, and when I asked about his parents, he unzipped his backpack and handed me a crumpled airline ticket. My heart skipped a beat when I saw his last name: Harrison — my last name.

“Who’s your dad?” I asked carefully. Tommy didn’t know, but something about his face felt eerily familiar. As he mentioned, “He’s here… at the airport,” I couldn’t help but wonder if he was related to me. My thoughts raced back to Ryan, my brother who had disappeared years ago.

Just then, I spotted Ryan, rushing through the crowd. The sight of him took me by surprise. Tommy ran to him, calling out, “Dad!” As Ryan pulled Tommy into a hug, he froze, recognizing me.

I hesitated but asked, “Is he… my nephew?” Ryan nodded, confirming what I’d started to suspect. The years of anger and distance between us hung heavy in the air. “I wish I’d known,” I said softly.

Ryan sighed. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admitted, regret in his voice.

Tommy, sensing the tension, asked, “Are we gonna see Uncle Ethan again?” Ryan smiled, a small crack in the awkwardness. “Maybe,” he said, glancing at me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we can.”