I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13

They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Thirteen years after my father’s death, I still found him in the smallest things—the whistle of the kettle, the afternoon light, the reflex to call someone who would never answer. He had been my everything after my mother left at my birth. I hadn’t entered his house since the funeral, afraid of the silence that felt alive.

The day finally came. Key in hand, I stepped onto the porch, whispering lies of courage to myself. Inside, memories pressed against every wall. In the attic, dust and ghosts lingered: boxes of sweaters, a flannel still carrying his scent, and a graduation photo with his grin brighter than mine. Then I found it—his old leather bag. Inside was a note: We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!

Beneath it, our game console waited. Plugging it in, his “ghost car” appeared—his record looping like a heartbeat. I whispered, “You left me a race.” Lap after lap, I chased him, his laughter echoing in every turn. When I finally had the chance to win, I eased off. His car crossed first. It hurt like grace.

Now, when the hospital feels heavy, I bring the console home. I lose on purpose, telling him about my patients, my life, my mess. Love doesn’t vanish—it changes shape. Sometimes it’s a ghost car pulling you forward, reminding you that he’s still with me. Today, I don’t need to catch him. I just want to race with my dad.