I woke up at 2 a.m. to 18 missed calls from my daughter and a text: “Dad, help! Come fast!!” I drove to her home like mad. My daughter and her fiancé looked surprised to see me. She said, “I never texted you!”
When I showed her the text, she turned pale. She said, “This is Amy’s phone number, Dad!” We both looked into each other’s eyes. Amy was my youngest daughter. She died last year in a car crash. She was only 19.
I had tears in my eyes. But as I left their place, I got another text and froze. It said, “I am still waiting. Where are you?”
I quickly called the number. A young woman answered, crying. Her car had broken down in the middle of nowhere, and she had been trying to reach her dad for help.
But when she got Amy’s old number, my contact—still saved as “Dad”—was the one she dialed by mistake. I cried the entire night. For a few seconds, it felt like Amy had reached out to me from beyond, as if she were alive again, if only for a fleeting moment.