I woke up at 3 a.m. to my phone vibrating nonstop — seventeen missed calls from my daughter and one text:
“Dad, help! Come fast!!”
I rushed out of bed and drove straight to her house, my heart racing the entire way. When I burst through the door, she and her fiancé looked at me in confusion.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
“You texted me!” I said, showing her my phone.
Her face went pale.
“Dad… this is Helen’s number.”
Helen — my youngest daughter, the one we lost in a car accident last year. She was only nineteen.
As we stood there in stunned silence, another message came through:
“I am still waiting. Where are you?”
My hands shook as I called the number. A young woman answered, crying.
“Dad? Please, I need help…”
“I’m not your father,” I said gently. “Who are you trying to reach?”
Through sobs, she explained her car had broken down. She’d tried calling her dad’s old number — still saved as “Dad” — not knowing it now belonged to me. It had once been Helen’s.
I stayed on the line until help arrived.
Later, I sat in my car and cried. For a few fragile seconds that night, it felt like Helen had reached out — reminding me that love never truly disappears.
