😟A little օver a year agօ, a strօke stօle him away frօm me…😬 I texted my late father’s phօne every day fօr a year—uոtil I received a respօnse that gave me gօosebumps👇
Grief is a strange thing. It lingers in unexpected places—an empty chair, a favorite song, even the instinct to call someone who is no longer there.
For me, grief lived in my phone.
My dad and I had always been close. After losing my mom when I was eleven, he became my entire world. He had a way of makiոg life brighter, whether thrօugh Mickey Mօuse-shaped paոcakes օr Suոday mօrning fishiոg trips. He knew how to bring joy, even on the hardest days, like the anniversary of my mom’s passing, when he threw a pool party for my friends and me.
“I need this as much as you do, love,” he said, adding black pepper to the minced meat. “Sometimes we get too sad today, but Mom wasn’t a sad person. She made the sun shine.”
She did. And so, we lived as if the sun was always shining for us.
But then, a year ago, a stroke took him away from me.
It was sudden, cruel, and left me feeling lost. One day, I found myself at our fishing spot, eating a slice of apple pie—the way we always did. In that silence, I started texting his number. It was a habit, like calling him after class or sharing a funny story.
Dad, my roommate set fire to pasta last night. You wouldn’t believe it.
I got my first B in college. You’d say, ‘B for better next time,’ right?
A guy tried to mansplain fishing to me today. I showed him our 2016 bass photo. You should’ve seen his face!
It felt silly. He was gone, and someone else had his number. But somehow, it helped. Like if I sent my thoughts into the void, he might hear me.
Then, on the anniversary of his death, I sent three messages:
Dad, I really miss you.
It’s been a year, and I still text you. I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels like you’re still listening.
My heart ached. And then—my phone buzzed.
You’re not crazy.
My breath caught. My stomach twisted in an impossible mix of fear and hope. My heart pounded in my ears. I nearly dropped my phone.
Dad???
Right then, the nurse called my name. I stumbled into the exam room, my thoughts spinning. Was this real? Was my father somehow responding? Or had grief finally broken me?
The doctor entered—a middle-aged man with kind eyes. He smiled as he checked my vitals, but my mind was elsewhere. I barely noticed when he excused himself to get some equipment.
Alone, I stared at my phone. I had to know.
Are you alive, Dad?
A message appeared. And at the same time, the doctor’s phone lit up on his desk.
My stomach dropped.
I sent a row of emojis to my father’s number. Seconds later, they flashed on the doctor’s screen.
I bolted.
Heart racing, I ran down the hall, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Who was this man? Had he been watching me? Was this some cruel joke?
Hours later, back in my apartment, my phone rang. I almost ignored it. But then—
I’m sorry I didn’t respond earlier. I was at work. Listen, I’m not your father. I think he had this number before me. I’m so sorry for your loss.
I read all your messages. At first, I didn’t know what to do. But then I started looking forward to them. You reminded me I wasn’t alone. I lost my daughter, Natalie, four years ago. She used to text me and her mom about everything too.
I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted you to know—you’re not alone. Your father raised a wonderful, caring daughter. But I can see your pain.
If you ever need to talk, I’m here.
Tears blurred my vision. The tightness in my chest eased, just a little. This wasn’t a cruel prank. It was a coincidence—one that connected two grieving strangers.
I texted back:
You terrified me. Oh, gosh.
I know. I’m so sorry. I had a patient—I couldn’t check my phone.
I know, I replied. Her name was Lauren, and you were about to check her blood pressure.
A pause. No typing bubbles.
How do you know that? Now I’m uneasy!
I laughed.
I ran out because I saw my texts pop up on your screen. It freaked me out.
Another pause. Then my phone rang.
His voice was steady, but raw. “I never meant for you to find out this way,” he said. “But I think fate had other plans. I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to know at all.”
And then we talked—about my dad, his daughter, grief, and the strange ways the universe connects people. By the end of the call, I felt lighter, like I had shared my burden with someone who truly understood.
Before we hung up, he chuckled. “Uh, Lauren… you should probably come back so I can finish your check-up.”
I laughed too.
“I will,” I said. “Thank you, Henry. For letting me talk about my dad.”
“Anytime, kiddo.”
