I woke up at 3 a.m. to the constant vibrating glow of my phone. Seventeen missed calls from my daughter. And one text message that shook my whole body: “Dad, help! Come quickly!”
I was out of bed in seconds. I didn’t even put on proper shoes—I just grabbed my keys and ran like crazy through the empty streets. My heart was pounding the entire way. A thousand nightmare scenarios flashed through my mind as I raced to her house.
As I burst through the door , my daughter and her fiancé looked up from the couch, confused.
“Dad? What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked.
“You texted me! You called me!” I said, lifting the phone with trembling hands.
She frowned. “No, I didn’t.”
But when I showed her the message, she paled. She whispered, barely audible, “Dad… that’s Helen’s phone number.”
For a moment, everything around me blurred. Helen. My youngest daughter. The one I lost last year in a car accident. She was only nineteen. My sweet girl with the brightest laugh.
My daughter’s eyes met mine, and we both just stood there—silent, stunned, pained. I felt an old wound burst open again, tender and sharp.
I stepped outside to catch my breath, but before I could collect myself, another text message arrived. This time, I froze in place.
“I’m still waiting. Where are you?”
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