My husband died when our daughter, Susie, was just two weeks old. A car crash, they said. Sudden. Brutal. The kind of tragedy you can’t prepare for because you’re too busy living. One moment, Charles was kissing my forehead on his way out for milk. The next, I was cradling our infant, too numb to cry, while a stranger in uniform explained how fast it all ended.
I never saw his body.
His mother, Diane, took charge. She said it was better that way. The casket was closed, the cremation fast. She had connections in the mayor’s office, pulled strings “to protect me.” I let her. I was 23 and drowning. I clung to Susie, who needed everything from me when I had almost nothing left to give.
Eighteen years passed.
I learned to function, though grief shadowed me like smoke. Susie grew into a curious, bright-eyed girl who carried her father’s dimple and asked me about him with hesitant tenderness, as if afraid the question would hurt more than help. I gave her what I could — worn stories, fading photos, the echo of his off-key singing. And for a long time, that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
It was a Tuesday evening when I walked past the hallway and heard Susie’s voice. Gentle. Whispering into the landline like it was a sacred ritual.
“Okay… I miss you too, Dad.
Dad?
When she noticed me, she slammed the phone down. “Wrong number,” she muttered, bolting up the stairs. But I wasn’t twelve anymore. I knew what I heard. I knew the weight behind those words.
That night, while she slept, I checked the call history. One number stood out. Unfamiliar. I dialed it.
The silence on the other end felt… aware. Then a click. The line went dead.
My hands trembled. My breath refused to steady. Because that voice? I knew that voice.
Charles.
The next morning, I confronted Susie. No anger, just quiet desperation. She hesitated, then disappeared upstairs. When she returned, she carried a letter. Worn. Creased. My name wasn’t on it, but I recognized the handwriting.
