Late One Night, I Heard My Daughter Whisper, “I Miss You, Dad” on the Phone — But He Died 18 Years Ago

Daniel found our number almost by accident. He said he’d called once, planning to hang up—but Susie answered.

At first, she didn’t know who he was. So he told her stories. About her dad’s laugh. His awful singing. The way he talked about his unborn daughter like she was already the center of his world. And when Susie asked if he missed him, Daniel told the truth.

“Yes,” he said. “Every single day.”

“I never wanted to cross a line,” Daniel said softly. “She just needed someone who remembered him.”

I cried—not from anger, but from relief. From gratitude. From the realization that my daughter hadn’t been hiding something frightening or unhealthy. She’d been reaching for the one thing she never had enough of: her father.

When I spoke to Susie the next morning, she didn’t deny it. She cried. She apologized. She told me she only wanted to hear someone say his name out loud.

“I wasn’t trying to replace him,” she said. “I just didn’t want him to disappear.”

Neither did I.

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