My husband died shortly after our daughter Susie was born. Now 18, she seemed to be coping—until one night I overheard her whispering into the landline, “Okay, Dad, I miss you too.” I froze. She hung up quickly and claimed it was a wrong number, but curiosity got the best of me. I checked the call log and dialed the unfamiliar number. After a few rings, I heard breathing… then a voice I’d know anywhere—my husband’s.
Shaken, I confronted Susie the next morning. At first, she denied it, but then admitted she’d been calling that number every night, just to feel close to him. “I don’t know why,” she said. “It just feels like he’s listening.” I didn’t judge. I understood. I missed him too.
Over time, her nightly calls continued. Sometimes she smiled afterward. Other times, she cried. One night, she came running to me, wide-eyed. “Mom… he spoke. He said, ‘I’m proud of you.’” From then on, she seemed lighter—stronger.
Eventually, she asked to visit his grave. At the cemetery, she placed a flower and whispered, “Thank you for being my dad. I’m okay now.” That moment brought us both peace—not because of something magical, but because of love that hadn’t faded.
A few weeks later, Susie started a support group for people dealing with loss. Helping others became her purpose. Someone once told me, “Your daughter helped me feel less alone.”
In the end, it wasn’t about phone calls from beyond. It was about the enduring power of love—how it comforts, connects, and heals, even after goodbye.
