The night before my father’s funeral, I couldn’t sleep—haunted by the call I never returned. But it wasn’t just grief that kept me awake. It was the strange voicemail trail, a cold hug from my mother-in-law, and one odd question about 1981 that would change everything.
The kitchen clock ticked louder than usual. Every sound—the fridge humming, the wooden chair creaking beneath me—felt like it echoed through a cave.
I stirred my cold tea without taking a sip. It had gone bitter, but I didn’t care.
My eyes kept falling to my phone. The screen was dark, but I knew what I’d see if I opened it again—Dad’s name, four missed calls.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The last one had come while I was driving. I’d told him I’d call back. I never did.
The regret clawed at my chest. It wasn’t just about the missed call. It was knowing that our final moment together was unfinished.
There was no “I love you” to hold onto. Just silence.
Footsteps broke through the noise in my head. Adam, my husband, appeared in the doorway.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
He looked tired too, but when he saw me, he softened.
“Lucy, you okay?” His voice was quiet, careful, like he didn’t want to startle me.