For me, grief lived in my phone.
It lived in the messages I sent to a number that no longer belonged to my father but still felt like his.
The Texts That Kept Him Alive
My dad wasn’t just a parent; he was my world. When my mother died, I was eleven, and he stepped in to fill every gap her absence left behind.
He loved in small, steady ways. In pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, in gas station slushies after a long day, and in Sunday morning fishing trips where we never cared if we caught anything.
He also loved loudly. Like when he threw a huge backyard barbecue on the anniversary of my mom’s death, inviting all my friends so the day wouldn’t feel so heavy.
“Mom made the sun shine, didn’t she?” he said as he flipped burger patties. “So we have to live like it’s shining just for us.”
We tried. We really did.
But when a sudden stroke took him from me a year ago, all that warmth disappeared. The sun stopped shining.
I felt orphaned. Abandoned.
And so, one day, sitting by our old fishing spot, eating a slice of apple pie—our tradition—I did the only thing that felt right.
I texted him.
“You wouldn’t believe how bad my roommate’s cooking is. She set fire to spaghetti last night.”
“I got my first B in college, Dad. I know, I know—’B for better next time,’ right?”
“Some guy tried to mansplain fishing to me today. I showed him that picture of us with the big bass from ‘16. You should’ve seen his face.”
I knew it was pointless. But sending those texts felt like keeping him alive.
The Message That Changed Everything
For a whole year, I poured my heart into those texts, knowing I’d never get a response.
Then, on the anniversary of his death, while sitting in the waiting room at a clinic, I sent three messages I never expected to be answered.
“Dad, I miss you so much.”
“A year has passed, and I still can’t stop writing to you.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it feels like you’re still listening.”
I barely had time to process my emotions when my phone buzzed.
One new message.
“You’re not crazy.”
My breath hitched. My stomach twisted, a storm of emotions crashing through me.
This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.
Dad???
Before I could think, the nurse called my name.
A Stranger in the Shadows
Inside the exam room, I couldn’t focus. The doctor—a kind-looking man in his fifties—greeted me warmly, but his words blurred together. My heart was still hammering in my chest.
Then something caught my eye.
His phone.
It was on his desk, lit up with my message.
I nearly fell out of my chair.
Desperate to prove I wasn’t losing my mind, I sent a string of random emojis to my father’s number. Seconds later, they appeared on his phone.
I ran.
Tearing down the hallway, my breath came in ragged gasps. Who was he? Was this some cruel joke? Had this man—this doctor—been watching me all along?
I barely made it home before I collapsed onto my bed, clutching my phone like a lifeline. Then, it buzzed again.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t answer earlier. I was at work. Listen, I’m not your father. I got this number recently, and I guess it belonged to him before. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I read your messages. At first, I didn’t know what to do. But then, I started looking forward to them. You reminded me that I wasn’t alone, either. I lost my daughter four years ago. Natalie. She used to text her mother and me about everything when she was in college, too.”
Tears blurred my vision. The panic in my chest eased, replaced by something gentler.
This wasn’t some stalker. This wasn’t a joke.
It was just a man who had known the same grief I had.
So, I replied.
“You scared me! Oh my goodness.”
A minute later, my phone rang.
I hesitated, then picked up.
His voice was warm, steady, filled with something raw and unfiltered.
“I never meant for you to find out this way,” he said. “But I think fate had a different plan. I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to find out at all.”
And suddenly, we were talking.
About my dad. About his daughter. About grief. About the strange ways the universe brings people together.
By the end of the call, I felt lighter—like a part of my burden had been shared with someone who understood.
“Um, Lauren?” he said. “You should probably come back in so we can finish your check-up.”
I laughed.
“I will,” I said. “Thank you, Henry. For letting me talk about my dad. On the phone now… and through all those texts.”
“Anytime, kiddo,” he chuckled. “But I do need to know—how the hell did your roommate set fire to spaghetti?”
Finding Light in the Darkness
We met for lunch a week later. Over burgers and milkshakes, we talked about everything—our losses, our happiest memories, and the people we missed every day.
“Natalie would’ve loved you,” Henry said, smiling. “She could eat her weight in cheeseburgers.”
And just like that, joy made its way back into my life.
I wasn’t alone.
Maybe I never had been.
And maybe—just maybe—some messages really do find their way home.
