Prison Daddy
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 3: The Letters
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Letters - Rafael raped his sister Carmen. Esme is their daughter—a child of incest. For fifteen years, Carmen stays silent, believing it will protect her. Rosa believes her imprisoned son deserves family. She arranges the connection. Carmen tried to shield Esme by telling her nothing. Rosa filled the silence with access to Rafael. Rafael filled Esme's void with stories. And Esme filled her womb with his children.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Voyeurism Size AI Generated
Monday morning I stopped at the blue mailbox on the corner of Amsterdam and 168th.
The letter was in my backpack—sealed, stamped, addressed exactly how the website said. I’d checked it four times last night to make sure I got the inmate number right, the facility name, all the codes and numbers in the right order. One wrong digit and it would come back. Or worse—disappear into whatever void held mail that couldn’t find its destination.
I pulled it out. The envelope was warm from being pressed against my back during the walk. My handwriting looked childish on the front. Uneven. Like I was trying too hard to make it neat.
I opened the metal flap. The inside of the box was dark. Empty except for a few other envelopes at the bottom—bills, probably. Junk mail. Nothing important.
This felt important.
Once I dropped it in, that was it. He’d get it. He’d know I wanted to talk to him. That I cared.
That I was choosing this.
I held the envelope over the opening.
This was stupid. It was just a letter. Just words on paper going to someone who had nothing else to do but read them.
But it didn’t feel like just a letter.
I let go.
The letter hit the bottom with a soft sound. Final.
The flap clanged shut when I released it.
I stood there for a second, staring at the blue metal. There was a sticker that said NEXT PICKUP: 3:00 PM. In six hours it would be gone. On its way to him. To Greenhaven. To Rafael.
My phone buzzed.
Maya: running late. save me a seat on bus
I shoved my phone in my pocket and walked to school.
I couldn’t focus all day.
In English we were reading To Kill a Mockingbird and Ms. Chen kept asking questions about Scout’s relationship with Atticus, about father figures and morality and justice, and all I could think about was the letter. About whether it had been picked up yet. About the hands that would touch it—postal workers, prison guards, people whose job was to read other people’s mail and decide if it was dangerous.
Would they read mine? Would they see a fifteen-year-old girl asking her uncle about her dead father and think that was normal? Or would they see something else?
I Googled it on my phone under my desk. USPS delivery times to correctional facilities. Three to four business days, the website said. Sometimes longer because of security screening.
So if I mailed it Monday, he’d get it Thursday. Maybe Friday.
And then he’d read it.
And then—what? Would he write back right away? Or would he wait? Would he think my letter was stupid? Too short?
“Esme?”
I looked up. Ms. Chen was staring at me. So was everyone else. Twenty-eight faces turned in my direction. Some curious. Some bored. Brandon Martinez in the third row looking at me with his eyebrows raised.
I pressed my palms against my thighs under the desk.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked what you thought about Scout’s perception of Boo Radley changing throughout the novel.” Ms. Chen’s voice had that patient-but-annoyed quality teachers get when they’ve already asked twice.
“Um.” I had no idea what we’d been talking about. No idea what chapter we were even on. “She realizes he’s not what she thought?”
Ms. Chen looked disappointed but moved on. “Can you expand on that?”
“Like—” I scrambled. “She thought he was scary. But then she realizes he’s just misunderstood. That people made him into a monster when he wasn’t.”
“Good. And what does that tell us about perception versus reality?”
Someone else answered. I stopped listening.
My phone was still open under my desk. I scrolled to the prison website. Looked at visiting hours again. Extended family visits—48 hours. Friday through Sunday. Application required. Background check. Approval within two weeks.
Two weeks.
The bell rang. Everyone grabbed their bags. I shoved my phone in my pocket.
“Esme, can you hang back for a second?”
Ms. Chen was at her desk. Waiting.
I walked over slowly. Like maybe if I moved slow enough she’d forget why she wanted to talk to me.
“Is everything okay?” she asked when everyone else had left. Her voice was softer now. Concerned. “You seem really distracted lately. More than usual.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because if something’s going on at home—”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m just tired.”
She studied me for a moment. Her eyes doing that teacher thing where they try to read your mind. Decide if you’re lying.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But if you need to talk to someone—the guidance counselor, or even just me—my door’s open. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And Esme? Try to stay present in class. You’re a smart kid. I’d hate to see you fall behind.”
I nodded. Grabbed my bag. Left before she could say anything else.
In the hallway Maya was waiting by my locker.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing. She just wanted to make sure I was okay.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you’ve been acting weird.” Maya leaned against the locker next to mine. “Like, weirder than normal. You’re always spacing out. You never want to hang out. You barely talk at lunch anymore.”
“I’m just busy—”
“With what? You’re not in any clubs. You’re not playing sports. You literally just go to school and go home.” She crossed her arms. “So what are you busy with?”
I spun my combination. Opened my locker. Started switching out books even though I didn’t need to. Just something to do with my hands.
“Family stuff,” I said.
“What kind of family stuff?”
“Just—stuff. My abuela needs help with things.”
“Like what?”
“Like appointments and errands and—Maya, why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m not interrogating you. I’m trying to figure out why my best friend is acting like I don’t exist.”
I closed my locker. Harder than I meant to. The metal bang echoed down the hallway.
“I’m not acting like you don’t exist.”
“Yes you are. And I don’t know why. Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
I wanted to tell her. About Saturday. About Greenhaven and the yellow line on the floor and the man who’d looked at me like I was worth looking at. About my dad, about Luis, about having a name for the empty space for the first time in my life.
But I couldn’t put any of it into words. Not even to myself.
Maya wouldn’t understand. She’d think it was weird. She’d probably tell someone. And then Mom would find out and everything would explode.
“I’m just dealing with some stuff,” I said. “Family stuff. It’s complicated.”
“Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Your abuela?”
“She’s fine.”
“Then what—” Maya stopped. Her face changed. “Oh my god. Is it a guy?”
The back of my neck got hot. “What? No.”
“It is! You’re seeing someone!” She grabbed my arm. “Oh my god, Esme, why didn’t you tell me? Who is it? Is it someone from school?”
“Maya, I’m not—”
“Is it Brandon? Did he finally—”
“It’s not Brandon. It’s not anyone. I’m not seeing anyone.”
She studied my face. Trying to read me. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes you are. You’re doing that thing where you won’t look at me.” She grabbed my shoulders. Turned me to face her. “Tell me. Right now. Who is it?”
“There’s no one. I swear.”
“Esme—”
“I have to get to History.” I pulled away. Started walking. Fast.
“We’re not done talking about this!” Maya called after me.
But I was already gone. Disappearing into the crowd. Into the safety of bodies and noise and not having to explain myself.
Three to four days. That’s what the website said. I lay in bed counting them.
Thursday he’d get my letter.
Friday he’d read it.
And then—
I closed my eyes. Tried to sleep.
But all I could think about was his hands opening the envelope. His eyes moving over my words. His voice in my head reading what I’d written.
I want to know more. About him. About what he was like.
If that’s okay.
It was okay. It had to be okay.
Because I’d already sent it.
And there was no taking it back.
Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.
I checked the mail every day after school. Ran down to the lobby. Opened the little metal door with our apartment number on it.
Bills. Junk. Nothing.
Friday I checked again.
And there it was.
Thin white envelope. Return address stamped in the corner: GREENHAVEN CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. And under that, his name and number: RIVERA, RAFAEL #04-A-7763.
I grabbed it. Left the rest of the mail.
Ran upstairs. Two flights. My pulse visible at my throat.
Mom wouldn’t be home for three more hours. Abuela was in her room. Door closed. Probably napping.
I locked myself in my room.
Sat on my bed.
Stared at the envelope.
The paper was thin. Cheap. Standard prison issue, probably. My name and address were written in that same careful handwriting—slanted to the right, each letter distinct and clear like he’d taken his time.
Like it mattered.
I almost didn’t want to open it. What if it was short? What if he’d just answered my questions and that was it? What if—
I tore the envelope carefully along the seam.
Two pages. Front and back. Blue ink.
I had to take a breath before I unfolded them.
Esme,
It was so good to hear from you. I can’t tell you how much your letter meant to me. I’ve been thinking about you since you left—about our visit, about everything we talked about. It’s rare that I get to have a real conversation with someone, you know? In here it’s mostly just surface stuff. Nobody asks real questions. Nobody really listens. But you did.
I’m glad you want to know about Luis. He was one of the most important people in my life, and it hurts that you never got to know him. Your mom has her reasons for not talking about him—grief does strange things to people—but you deserve to know who your father was.
There’s this one memory I keep coming back to. You would’ve been born in late 1993, right? So this would’ve been early 1993, maybe February or March. Your mom was about five months pregnant. Luis and I were working on his car—this beat-up Honda Civic he was convinced he could fix himself even though neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. We were out in the parking lot behind my building, hands covered in grease, and the engine wouldn’t turn over no matter what we tried.
And Luis just started laughing. Not frustrated laughing—real laughing, the kind where you can’t breathe. He sat down on the curb, wiped his hands on his jeans, and said, “Man, we are so bad at this.”
I asked him why he was even bothering. He could’ve taken it to a mechanic. Saved himself the headache. And he said, “Because when my kid is old enough, I want to teach them how to fix things. I don’t want them growing up helpless, you know? I want them to know how stuff works. I want them to be able to take care of themselves.”
He didn’t even know you were a girl yet. Your mom hadn’t found out. But he already knew he was going to be a dad, and he was already thinking about what kind of father he wanted to be. What he wanted to teach you. How he wanted to shape you into someone strong.
We never did fix that car, by the way. Ended up calling a tow truck. But Luis kept talking the whole ride about what he was going to teach you. How to ride a bike, how to swim, how to stand up for yourself when someone tried to push you around. He had it all planned out.
He was so excited. I’ve never seen someone so happy about something that scared them so much. Because he was scared, you know. Terrified. He’d wake me up at 2 AM sometimes just to talk through it. “What if I fuck it up? What if I’m a terrible dad? What if I can’t give them what they need?”
But I knew he wouldn’t be. Because he cared enough to worry. And that’s half the battle right there.
I think about that a lot. About how excited he was. About how much he wanted to be there for you. About all the things he wanted to teach you that he never got the chance to.
I’m sorry he didn’t get that chance. I’m sorry you had to grow up without him.
But I’m glad I get to tell you about him now. I’m glad I get to know you, even if it’s just through letters. You asked in your letter if it was okay to keep asking questions—Esme, it’s more than okay. Ask me anything. I want to help you know him. I want to help you understand where you came from.
You also mentioned feeling like your mom won’t talk about any of this. I get that. And I get that it’s hard, feeling like there’s this whole part of your history that’s locked away. That nobody will give you the key to. If I can give you even a little bit of that back, I want to.
Tell me about you, too. You said school is fine, but what does that mean? What are you into? What makes you happy? What’s hard right now? I want to know. Not just because you’re Luis’s daughter, but because I want to know you. The real you. Not the version you show everyone else.
Write back when you can. I’ll be here.
Rafael
I read it three times.
The first time, my vision blurred. I had to blink. Wetness on my cheeks. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d answered. Maybe because of the story about my dad and the car. About him wanting to teach me things. About him being excited and terrified and human.
The second time, I read it slower. Tried to picture it—my dad sitting on a curb, covered in grease, laughing. Talking about me before I even existed. Before he knew if I’d be a boy or a girl or anything. Just knowing he wanted to be ready.
The third time, I focused on the other parts. The parts about me.
I want to know you. The real you. Not the version you show everyone else.
Nobody had ever said that to me before.
Nobody had ever cared about the difference.
I wiped my eyes. Folded the letter carefully. Put it in my nightstand drawer with the napkin that had his address.
Then I went to find Abuela.
She was in the living room. Sitting in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. The TV was on but she wasn’t watching it. Just listening. The sound filling the empty space.
“Abuela?”
She turned toward my voice. “Mija?”
I sat on the couch across from her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember my dad?”
Her whole body went still. Her face changed—not softer. Careful. Guarded. Like she was deciding what to say and what to keep hidden.
“Why are you asking about this?”
“I just—I want to know about him. Mom won’t talk about it. She never talks about it.”
Abuela was quiet for a long time. Too long. Her hands were shaking slightly in her lap.
“Your mother has her reasons.”
“But don’t I have a right to know? He was my father.”
“Some things are your mother’s to tell, mija. Not mine.”
“So you DO remember him?”
“I—” She stopped. Reached for her hearing aids. Adjusted them even though they were fine. “It was a long time ago. And it’s complicated.”
“Everything’s always complicated. Why can’t anyone just give me a straight answer?”
“Because some answers aren’t straight, mija. Some things—” She shook her head. “You should talk to your mother.”
“I tried. She won’t tell me anything.”
“Then maybe she has her reasons for that too.”
Abuela’s hands were shaking harder now. She folded them tight in her lap. Squeezed them together like she was trying to stop the trembling through force.
“I just want to know what he was like,” I said quietly. “That’s all.”
“I know, mija.” Her voice was sad. Hollow. “I know you do.”
But she didn’t answer the question.
She just turned back toward the TV. Her face closed. Shut down.
Conversation over.
I sat there for another moment. Waiting. Hoping she’d change her mind. Say something. Anything.
But she didn’t.
I went back to my room.
At least Rafael would answer my questions. At least Rafael would tell me the truth.
I pulled out my laptop.
Rafael,
Thank you for writing back. I didn’t know if you would, or if you’d think my letter was stupid or whatever. But I’m really glad you did.
The story about my dad and the car made me cry. I’ve never heard anything like that before. My mom doesn’t talk about him at all. I used to ask when I was younger, but she’d just get this look on her face—like I was hurting her just by asking—and say “not now, mija,” and that was it. After a while I stopped asking. It was easier.
I tried asking my abuela today. About my dad. But she wouldn’t tell me anything either. She just said it was complicated and that I should talk to my mom. But my mom won’t talk about it, so what am I supposed to do? Just never know anything? Just live with this empty space where my father should be?
So I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know what he looked like or what his voice sounded like or if I’m anything like him. It’s like this huge part of me is just missing, and nobody will tell me anything. Nobody except you.
You’re the only person who’s willing to answer my questions. And I can’t tell you how much that means.
I keep thinking about what you said—about him wanting to teach me things. Do you think he would’ve liked me? I know that’s a weird question, but I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not that interesting. Like if he could see me now, he’d be disappointed. Like maybe it’s better that he died before he had to meet me and realize I’m just—average. Boring.
You asked about school. It’s fine, I guess. I’m a sophomore at Columbus High School. I’m good at English and History but terrible at math. My best friend is Maya—she’s cool but sometimes exhausting. She’s really into boys and TikTok and all this stuff I don’t really care about. She thinks I’m weird because I’d rather read than go to parties. Because I don’t know how to talk to people the way she does—easy and confident like she’s not afraid of being judged.
I don’t know. I feel like I don’t really fit in anywhere. At school I’m just kind of ... there. Invisible. At home my mom is always working, and when she’s not working she’s too tired to talk. My abuela won’t answer my questions about anything real. So I’m just—alone, I guess.
Is that stupid? That probably sounds so dramatic. You’re actually in prison and I’m complaining about high school. I’m sorry.
Can you tell me more about my dad? What did he look like? What kind of stuff did he like to do? Did I get anything from him, or am I all my mom?
Thank you for writing to me. Thank you for wanting to know me.
—Esme
I read it over twice. Almost deleted the part about asking if Dad would’ve liked me. It sounded pathetic. Needy.
But it was true. And Rafael had said he wanted the real me. Not the version I showed everyone else.
So I left it.
I printed it. Sealed it in an envelope. Wrote out his address in careful handwriting, copying the format from his envelope exactly.
I’d mail it tomorrow on my way to school.
I folded his letter carefully. Smoothed out the creases. Put it in my nightstand drawer.
That night I pulled it out before bed. Read it again. His words. His voice in my head.
I want to know you.
I fell asleep holding it.
Wondering when the next one would come.
His second letter arrived the following Monday. Six days after I’d mailed mine.
I came home from school and went straight to the mailbox in the lobby. Flipped through the envelopes. Electric bill. Grocery store flyer. Credit card offer.
And then—there.
I grabbed it. Ran upstairs.
Mom wouldn’t be home for three more hours. Abuela was in the kitchen. I could hear her moving around. The clink of dishes. The running water.
I went to my room. Closed the door. Locked it.
Sat on my bed and tore open the envelope.
Three pages this time. Front and back.
Esme,
Your letter wasn’t stupid. Don’t ever think that. You’re fifteen years old and you’re asking questions that most people don’t have the courage to ask until they’re much older—if they ever ask them at all. That’s not stupid. That’s brave.
And of course your dad would’ve liked you. He would’ve loved you. You want to know how I know? Because you’re thoughtful. You ask real questions. You’re not satisfied with surface answers. You dig deeper. You want to understand not just what happened, but why. Luis was like that too—always asking questions, always wanting to understand the world instead of just accepting it. That came from him. That’s his mark on you.
You asked what he looked like. He was about my height—5’10”, maybe 5’11”. Dark hair, dark eyes like yours. He had this smile that took over his whole face when something really made him happy. Like he couldn’t contain it. Your mom has a picture of him somewhere, I’m sure, even if she doesn’t look at it. Even if she’s buried it so deep she’s convinced herself it doesn’t exist. But yeah—you have his eyes. I noticed that when we met. The shape of them. The way you look at people when you’re really listening. That’s all Luis.
He loved music. Not any particular kind—just music in general. He’d listen to anything. Salsa, hip-hop, rock, whatever was on. He said music was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did. He’d play it loud in that broken Civic, windows down, driving around the neighborhood like he owned it. Your mom used to complain that he was going to blow out the speakers, but he didn’t care. Music made him feel alive.
He loved your mom more than anything. I know things are complicated now, but you should know that. When they first got together, he’d talk about her constantly. Carmen this, Carmen that. It drove me crazy, honestly, but it was also kind of beautiful. He looked at her like she was the only person in the world. Like nothing else mattered as long as she was there.
When she got pregnant, he was terrified. I already told you that. But what I didn’t tell you was how that fear changed him. Made him better. He stopped hanging out with some of the guys who were bad news. Started working extra hours. Started planning for a future he’d never thought about before. Because now it wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about you. About being the kind of man you’d be proud of.
He would’ve been a great dad, Esme. I really believe that. Not perfect—nobody’s perfect—but he would’ve tried. And he would’ve loved you so much it hurt.
I’m sorry he didn’t get the chance. I’m sorry you had to grow up without him. I’m sorry for my part in that.
Now let me talk about you for a second, because you said some things in your letter that I can’t just ignore.
You said you feel alone. That you don’t fit in. That you think you’re boring. That your dad would’ve been disappointed.
Esme, listen to me: you are not alone. Not anymore. You have me now. And I know I’m not much—I’m stuck in here, I can’t take you anywhere or do anything useful—but I care. I think about you. I wonder how you’re doing. When your letter came, it was the best part of my week. The best part of my month, honestly. You have no idea what it’s like in here. How the days blur together. How you start to forget what it feels like to matter to someone. But your letters—they remind me. They make me feel human again.
And you ARE interesting. You’d rather read than go to parties? That’s not weird, that’s smart. Most people at parties are just pretending to have fun because they don’t know what else to do. Because being alone scares them. But you’re not afraid of being alone. You’re choosing to do something that actually means something to you. That takes guts. That takes knowing yourself. Most people twice your age don’t have that.
High school is hard. I remember. Everyone’s trying to figure out who they are, and most people just copy whoever’s popular because it’s easier than doing the work. But you’re not like that. You’re asking real questions. You’re thinking about your life, about who you are, about what matters. That’s rare. Hold onto that. Don’t let anyone make you feel small for being thoughtful.
You asked if you’re all your mom or if you got anything from your dad. I think you’re both. You’ve got his curiosity, his intensity, his need to understand things. But you’ve also got your mom’s strength. Carmen is one of the toughest people I know. She’s had to be. She lost the person she loved most and still managed to raise you by herself. To keep going when everything in her probably wanted to stop. You might not see it because you’re too close to it, but that strength is in you too. I can see it in the way you talk about feeling alone. You’re not complaining. You’re just stating a fact. And then you keep going anyway. That’s Carmen. That’s all her.
I’m sorry your abuela won’t answer your questions. That must be frustrating. Painful, even. But maybe she has her reasons. Maybe it’s too hard for her to remember. Maybe she’s trying to protect you, or protect your mom, or protect herself. I don’t know. People keep secrets for all kinds of reasons. Most of them bad.
But I’m here. And I’ll always answer your questions honestly. I promise you that. No matter what you ask. No matter how hard it is to answer. You deserve the truth. You deserve to know where you came from.
I want to keep talking to you. Keep writing to me. Tell me about your day. About what you’re reading. About what makes you mad or happy or confused. Tell me about Maya and why she’s exhausting. Tell me about school, about your teachers, about the boys who don’t notice you but should. Tell me everything.
I want to know you, Esme. Not just the big stuff, but the small stuff too. The things you think don’t matter. They matter to me.
One more thing—and I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I’m going to say it anyway because I don’t want to lie to you. When you visited, when you sat across from me and actually listened, actually cared about what I had to say—it reminded me what it feels like to be human. In here, you stop feeling like a person after a while. You’re just a number. Just a body taking up space. Just another inmate in a cell. But when I’m talking to you—when I’m reading your letters—I feel like myself again. Like I’m not just this thing that made mistakes. I’m a person. I’m your uncle. I’m someone who knew your father. I’m someone who matters to someone.
So thank you. For visiting. For writing. For giving me something to look forward to.
Write back soon.
Rafael
I read it four times.
The first time, my eyes got hot. The part about my dad being terrified but trying anyway. About him changing for me. About him loving Mom so much it drove Rafael crazy.
The second time, I focused on the physical description. Dark hair, dark eyes. The smile. I tried to picture it. Tried to see if I could find him in my own face when I looked in the mirror. But there was nothing. Just me. Just the face I’d always had. I couldn’t see him in it.
The third time, I read the part about me.
You are not alone. Not anymore. You have me now.
You ARE interesting.
I think about you.
The back of my neck got warm. I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he’d said anything inappropriate. It was just—nobody talked to me like that. Like what I thought mattered. Like I mattered.
The fourth time, I read the ending.
When I’m talking to you, I feel like myself again.
I put the letter down. Stared at my ceiling.
He felt like himself when he talked to me.
I made him feel human.
That shouldn’t feel good. That was—what? Pressure? Responsibility?
But it did feel good.
It felt like I was important. Like I had something to offer. Like I wasn’t just taking up space.
Somewhere around then I realized I hadn’t thought about Brandon Martinez in weeks. He was still two rows back in English. I just couldn’t remember why it had ever mattered.
I tried Abuela again that evening. Kitchen, drying dishes, when I mentioned Rafael had written back. Her hands stopped on the cloth. Be careful, mija. Things are more complicated than I know. Not her place to tell. Same as before.
I went back to my room. I pulled out my laptop.
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