I woke up at 3 a.m. to the glow of my phone vibrating nonstop. Seventeen missed calls from my daughter.
And one text that sent a jolt through my entire body: “Dad, help! Come fast!!”
I was out of bed in seconds. I didn’t even put on proper shoes—I just grabbed my keys and drove like a madman through the empty streets.
My heart hammered the whole way. A thousand horrible scenarios ran through my head as I sped to her house. When I burst through the door, my daughter and her fiancé looked up from the couch, confused.
“Dad? What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked. “You texted me!
You called me!” I said, holding up my phone with shaking hands. She frowned. “No, I didn’t.”
But when I showed her the message, her face went completely pale.
She whispered, barely audible, “Dad… this is Helen’s phone number.”
For a moment, everything around me blurred. Helen. My youngest daughter.
The one I lost last year in a car accident. She was only nineteen. My sweet girl with the brightest laugh.
My daughter’s eyes met mine, and we both just stood there—silent, stunned, aching. I felt that old wound split open again, raw and sharp. I stepped outside to catch my breath, but before I could even pull myself together, another text came through.
This time I froze on the spot. “I am still waiting. Where are you?”
My whole body trembled.
For a split second… just one impossibly fragile moment… it felt like Helen was reaching out to me from somewhere I could not go. Hands shaking, I called the number. A young woman answered immediately, crying.
“Dad? Dad, where are you? Please, I need help…”
I swallowed hard.
“I’m not your father,” I said gently. “Who are you trying to reach?”
Through sobs, she explained that her car had broken down in the middle of nowhere. She had been desperately trying to reach her dad—but he had recently changed his number.
When she tried calling the old one, the contact saved as “Dad”… was me. Because that number had once belonged to Helen. I comforted her, stayed on the line until help reached her.
Then I sat in my car and cried until sunrise. For a few heart-stopping seconds that night, it felt like Helen had found a way back to me—if only long enough to remind me that love never really disappears. Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events.
Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance.
All images are for illustration purposes only.
