What is the thing you don't talk about in your family?

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Back when I was 14, my dad and I were cleaning out his garage workshop after my mom had been nagging him for months to organize it. I found what I thought was a melted piece of metal wrapped up in an old oil-stained cloth tucked behind his toolbox.

I asked him what it was, and his face went completely white. He quickly took it from my hands and said something along the lines of, "Jesus, I didn't think I still had that."

I could tell this wasn't just some random scrap metal. There was something heavy in his voice, something that made the air in the garage feel different. When I pressed him about it, he got this distant look in his eyes.

"Son, I'll tell you what this is one day when you're over 18," he said, carefully rewrapping it. "But not before then. Some stories aren't meant for kids."

I figured I'd ask again in a week or two and he'd cave, but my dad was serious. For the next four years, every time I brought it up, he'd just shake his head and say, "When you're 18." It became this family mystery that drove me crazy. Even my mom would just change the subject whenever I asked her about it.

Finally, one day post-18, I was home from college and remembered to ask. My dad was in his recliner watching TV, and when I brought up the metal piece, he muted the volume and got that same heavy expression from years before.

"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath. "You're old enough now. But this story doesn't leave this room, understand?"

So here's what happened: Back in 1987, my father and my uncle Tommy, who is also my godfather, had been drinking heavily after a night at Murphy's Bar. They'd been arguing about money—specifically, the $2,000 that my uncle owed my dad from a failed business venture they'd tried to start together.

The argument started in the bar but continued back at my uncle's house, where they kept drinking and the conversation got more heated. My uncle Tommy was a police officer at the time, known for having a short temper and a drinking problem that the department kept overlooking because he was otherwise a good cop.

"If you don't get the hell out of my house right now, I will shoot you," my uncle finally said, his hand moving toward his service weapon.

My dad, who was just as drunk and just as stubborn, probably said something along the lines of, "Go fuck yourself, Tommy. You owe me that money."

That's when my uncle actually drew his gun.

The argument spilled out into the street, with my uncle following my dad to his car, weapon drawn. Neighbors were starting to peek out their windows, but nobody wanted to get involved with a drunk cop waving a gun around.

My dad got to his 1985 Chevy pickup and was fumbling with his keys when my uncle, standing about fifteen feet away, raised his service pistol and aimed it directly at him.

"You think I won't do it?" my uncle shouted. "You think I'm bluffing?"

My dad, in what he now admits was the stupidest moment of his life, turned around and said, "You don't have the balls to shoot me, Tommy."

My uncle raised his gun higher, aimed, and fired.

My dad dropped down behind his truck just as the shot rang out. The bullet missed his head by inches and slammed into the driver's seat of his pickup, right where he'd been standing seconds before.

The sound of the gunshot sobered both of them up instantly. My dad scrambled into his truck and peeled out of there, leaving my uncle standing in the street with a smoking gun and the realization of what he'd just done.

Once my dad got home, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely get his keys in the door. It wasn't until the next morning, when he went out to assess the damage to his truck, that he realized how close he'd come to dying.

The bullet had gone through the driver's side window, through the seat, and lodged in the back cushion. If he hadn't ducked when he did, it would have hit him center mass.

He dug the bullet out of his seat that morning and kept it as a reminder of how quickly things can go wrong when alcohol and pride mix with firearms.

The neighbors had called the police, and my uncle Tommy had to retire from the force immediately to avoid criminal charges. My dad ended up with a near-death experience and a bullet-riddled truck.

Just like brothers do, they talked it out a few days later and it became water under the bridge.

What I thought was a melted piece of metal was actually the spent bullet that my godfather shot at my father in a drunken rage.