“Dad… it’s me.”
I stared at the words, waiting for them to rearrange into something that made sense. They didn’t. My first thought wasn’t logical. It wasn’t grounded in reason or reality. It was hope.
A sharp, painful kind of hope that hit before anything else could catch up. My fingers trembled as I picked up the phone. I opened the message, my chest tightening with every second that passed.
“Dad, I know this is going to sound crazy. Please don’t block this number. I need to talk to you.”
I couldn’t breathe properly. Five years of grief, of finality, of learning to live with absence—and now this. My mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. A mistake. A cruel prank. Some kind of scam. Or something worse. I typed back before I could stop myself.
