I woke up at 3 a.m. to the vibration of my phone . Seventeen missed calls from my daughter. And one message that sent a shock through my entire body: “Dad, help! Come quickly!!”
I jumped out of bed within seconds. I didn’t even put on decent shoes – I just grabbed my keys and drove like a madman through the deserted streets. My heart pounded in my throat the whole way. A thousand terrible scenarios flashed through my mind as I raced to her house.
When I stormed through the door, my daughter and her fiancé looked up from the couch in confusion.
‘Dad? What are you doing here at this hour?’ she asked.
‘You sent me a message! You called me!’ I said, holding up my phone with trembling hands.
She frowned. “No, I didn’t do that.”
But when I showed her the message, her face turned completely pale. She whispered, barely audibly: “Dad… this is Helen’s phone number.”
For just a moment, everything around me faded. Helen. My youngest daughter. The one I lost last year in a car accident. She was only nineteen. My sweet girl with the happiest laugh.
My daughter’s eyes met mine, and we both stood there still—bewildered, filled with grief. I felt that old wound tear open again, raw and sharp.
I went outside for a moment to catch my breath, but before I could properly compose myself, another message came in. This time, I was rooted to the spot.
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