Susie grew up knowing her father only through stories, photographs, and a few old voicemail recordings I could never bring myself to delete. She was gentle, thoughtful, and far more introspective than most children her age. Sometimes I would catch her staring at his picture on the mantel, her fingers lightly tracing the frame as if it were a doorway to him.
Still, I never imagined what would happen when she turned eighteen.
It was an ordinary evening. The dishes were done, the television murmured in the background, and I was walking past the hallway when I heard Susie’s voice—soft, careful—coming from the landline phone we hardly used anymore.
“Okay, Dad,” she whispered. A pause. “I miss you too.”
I froze.
Continue reading…
