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

My husband passed away when our daughter, Susie, was barely three months old.

He never saw her roll over for the first time. Never heard her giggle. Never walked her to school or held her tiny hand. From the day he was gone, it was just Susie and me against everything. I didn’t choose strength—I learned it because survival demanded it. I learned how to function while exhausted, how to make one paycheck stretch impossibly far, how to answer the question “Where’s my dad?” without letting my heart split open.

Susie grew up knowing her father only through what I could preserve—stories, photographs, and a few old voicemail messages I couldn’t bring myself to erase. She was quieter than most kids, more reflective. Sometimes I’d catch her standing in front of his photo on the shelf, tracing the edge of the frame like she might step through it if she tried hard enough.

Still, nothing prepared me for what happened the year she turned eighteen.

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