When Allie hears her daughter whisper “I miss you, Dad” into the landline, her world cracks open. Her husband has been dead for 18 years, or so she thought. As unsettling truths unravel, Allie is forced to confront the past and the lie that shaped their entire lives.
My husband died when our daughter, Susie, was just two weeks old.
A car crash. That’s what they told me. Sudden, brutal, and senseless. One minute, Charles was kissing my forehead as he left for a quick grocery run. The next, I was clutching a police officer’s hand, struggling to process words that didn’t make sense.
I was 23. Grief clung to me like a second skin. Worse still, I held a newborn in my arms who needed more than my broken self could offer. That’s when Diane, Charles’s mother, stepped in. She worked in the mayor’s office and promised “to make everything easier” for me.
I just nodded while the funeral went on. It was a closed casket, I was told that there were injuries to his face. Diane insisted on a quick cremation. She made the calls. I stayed in bed, holding Susie, letting Diane smooth over the cracks of my world like wallpaper on rotting walls.
I never saw his body.
I told myself that it didn’t matter. Dead was dead, right?
Eighteen years passed. And somehow, I survived them.
I went from a girl cradling a newborn and grief in equal measure to a woman piecing life together in quiet, deliberate ways. It wasn’t brave or beautiful… it was necessary.
You get up. You make breakfast. You fold tiny clothes. You keep going.
Susie grew up kind. Curious. She was sensitive in ways that sometimes broke me. She had Charles’s eyes, those soft brown eyes, always searching the world. And his dimple when she smiled… though it came slower, more cautious, like whatever it was needed to be worthy of her smile.
As she grew older, her questions came like whispers in the night. Gentle. Careful. Almost as if she didn’t want to hurt me by asking.
“What was Dad like?” she’d say, usually when my hands were busy folding laundry or stirring soup, or wiping down counters.
I gave her what little I had. Stories that wore thin from retelling. I told her about his awful dad jokes that made me roll my eyes. Photos of his boyish grin. The memory of how he used to sing in the car, always off-key.
She accepted them, but I could feel the space behind her eyes. The space where real knowing should have lived.
For a long time, it was enough. Until it wasn’t.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday evening. I was walking past the hallway when I heard Susie’s voice. It was low, tender, and she was whispering through the landline.
“Okay… I miss you too, Dad.”
My entire body froze.
Dad. Dad?!
I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself. Susie turned, saw me, and hung up so fast the receiver clattered back onto the base.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked carefully, though my voice cracked halfway through.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Wrong number,” she muttered before darting upstairs.
I stood there for a long time, heart hammering, mind racing.
Wrong number? No. Not that soft tone. Not Dad.
That night, after she went to bed, I did something I’d never done before. I snooped.
The landline’s call log wasn’t hard to access. There it was. A number I didn’t recognize.
I stared at it for a long time before dialing.
The rings echoed through the silence, each one tightening around my chest like invisible hands. I almost hung up. My thumb hovered over the button. This was insane, I thought.
Delusional.
And then, breathing.
Soft. Male. Familiar in a way that made my stomach lurch violently.
“Susie,” the voice murmured, warm and relieved, as if this was a nightly ritual between loved ones. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t call again tonight.”
The words slammed into me. I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t think.
My mouth moved before my mind caught up.
“Who is this?” I asked, though deep down, I already knew. The dread tasted metallic, bitter on my tongue.
Silence followed. Thick and deliberate.
The line went dead.
The room was too still, yet somehow everything spun. I sat there gripping the phone, my knuckles white as waves of confusion and horror crashed over me.
Charles was dead. I knew he was dead. I had mourned him. Buried him, or at least, I thought I had.
Had I said goodbye to a man who was never in that casket?
Suddenly, nothing in my world felt certain anymore. Not even the grief I’d clung to like a lifeline.
The next morning, after a night of pacing and imagining every horrifying scenario, I confronted Susie at breakfast.
“Sit down,” I said gently but firmly.
My daughter hesitated but obeyed.
“I heard what you said yesterday,” my voice shook despite my best efforts. “Please, sweetheart. No more lies.”
Her shoulders sagged, her defiance crumbling. She got up without a word and disappeared upstairs.
Minutes later, she returned clutching a pale, creased envelope. She handed it to me and sat back down, eyes brimming.
I opened it slowly. The handwriting hit me like a truck. Charles.
“My name is Charles. If you’re reading this, it means I’ve finally built the courage to reach out. I’m your father.”
I swallowed as the letter unfolded painfully.
“I’ve been following your life from a distance. I panicked when you were born. I wasn’t ready. My mother helped me disappear. I thought I was doing the right thing. I see now that I was wrong. I’d like to talk. If you want to.”
At the bottom was a phone number.
I looked up at Susie, my throat tight with disbelief and betrayal.
“How did you find him?” I asked softly. “Did he find you?”
She hesitated, twisting her fingers together.
“I found him online months ago. I didn’t want to tell you. He did send the letter first but I wanted to see him on socials first. I needed to look at his photos and see if there was a part of me in them. I needed to know that this wasn’t a hoax. I needed to know if I had his eyes or smile… I have his eyes, Mom.”
She paused.
“Then, I called him on the number in the letter.”
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