I Texted My Late Dad’s Phone Every Day for a Year — Until I Got a Reply That Gave Me Goosebumps

Grief is a strange thing.

It doesn’t leave you all at once. It lingers in the spaces between moments, in the hollow quiet of a house that used to be full and colorful. And it lingers in the instinct to call someone who isn’t there anymore.

For me, grief lived in my phone.

It lived in that little device that used to bring me joy, but now it just brought me pain.

When my mom died, I was eleven, and Dad became my entire world. He was the kind of man who showed love in small and steady ways. In quiet ways, like pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, in gas station slushies after a long day, and in the quiet sanctuary of our Sunday morning fishing trips.

He also showed love in loud ways, like when he invited all my friends over for a pool party on my mother’s death anniversary.

“Dad, you don’t have to do this,” I said, watching him make burger patties from scratch.

“I do, Lo,” he said, using my nickname. He always thought ‘Lauren’ was too mature for me and that I’d grow into my name when I was older.

“I need it as much as you do, love,” he said, adding a good amount of black pepper to the minced meat. “Sometimes we get too sad on this day, and Mom was anything but a sad woman. She made the sun shine, didn’t she?”

She did. Of course, she did. She was the sun itself.

“So,” my dad continued, “we have to live like the sun is shining just for us.”

After that, we chose to live, and we tried not to let the grief weigh us down too much. But we did allow the grief to be felt during those fishing trips.

“Out here, kiddo,” he’d always say, reeling in his line, “it’s just us and the fish. There’s no worries, no outside world, just you and me and the water.”

Even now, I could still hear his voice, crisp and warm, like the way the sun used to rise over the dock.

And then, just over a year ago, a stroke took him from me.

It was sudden. Cruel. Unfair.

One day, I went to the dock where we used to fish, and I sat down on the grass. I couldn’t understand how I had gotten here. I was an orphan. I wanted my parents more than anything.

I sat there for a while, eating a slice of apple pie, which had been part of our fishing routine as well.

It was in that moment, in that silence… that I started texting my father’s number.

It was just like I used to call him on my way home from school. Just like I used to when I needed advice or when I just missed hearing his bad dad jokes.

You wouldn’t believe how bad my roommate’s cooking is. She set fire to spaghetti last night. I mean, really!

I got my first B in college, Dad. I know, I know, you’d say, ‘B for better next time,’ right? I really miss your corny jokes.

Some guy tried to mansplain fishing to me today when I got to our spot. I showed him that picture of us with that big bass from ’16. You should have seen his face. It was priceless.

It was stupid. The entire thing made me feel stupid. I was here, texting a man whose number was disconnected from the man who once held it. But it made me feel like he was still there. Like maybe, if I spoke into the void, some part of him could hear me.

And then, on the anniversary of his death, while I sat in the clinic’s waiting room, I sent three messages that I never expected to be answered.

Dad, I miss you so much.

A year has passed since you died, and I still can’t stop writing to you.

I know it sounds crazy, but it feels like you’re still listening to me.

My heart ached, and I wanted to cry for hours. Where was the joy? When was the world going to be brighter again? When would this pain end?

A moment passed. A long, suffocating moment.

And then my phone beeped, almost sending me flying off the chair.

You’re not crazy.

I think I stopped breathing. My stomach twisted in a way that was neither fear nor hope but some strange, impossible mixture of both. My heart pounded in my ears.

I almost threw up.

Dad???

Just then, the nurse called my name.

“Lauren! Come on, sweetie, it’s your turn.”

I jumped up, nearly dropping my phone, my pulse roaring in my chest. The clinic smelled like antiseptic and too clean hallways as I followed her inside. I barely registered the doctor when he entered.

“Lauren,” he said, smiling.

He was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a warm smile. I nodded numbly as he ran through my routine check-up, my head spinning. My body felt like it was floating, and I didn’t know if I had hallucinated the entire thing.

How could my father reply to a text message? Was Heaven doing that these days? Had I just witnessed a miracle? Had Dad somehow, impossibly, reached back to me?

No way. I was losing my mind. That had to be it. The grief seemed to have taken over everything.

The doctor excused himself to grab some equipment.

“Sorry, Lauren,” he said. “I’m not sure why the nurse didn’t bring the machines in. Give me a second, I need to check your blood pressure.”

Alone, my fingers hovered over the phone.

I had to know. I just had to.

Dad, are you alive??

A soft ding echoed in the room. I looked up and saw the doctor’s phone lit up on his desk. It couldn’t have been a coincidence, right?

“Just go sneak-peek it, Lauren,” I muttered.

And there it was! My message was on his screen. The world seemed to spin, and my stomach jumped around my body.

I sent a string of random emojis to my father’s number. Seconds later, they flashed across the doctor’s phone.

I bolted out of the clinic as fast as I could.

Tearing down the hallway, my breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The walls blurred as panic clawed at my throat. Who was he? Was he not a doctor? Was he a stalker? Or someone playing a sick joke? Had this man been watching me all this time?

Outside, I braced my hands on my knees as I leaned against the wall for support. I tried to steady myself, but the nausea continued to rise.

Hours later, when I was back at my apartment, holding onto my bed for dear life, my phone buzzed.

I nearly ignored it, but then…

I’m so sorry I didn’t answer earlier. I was at work. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m not your father. I got this number recently, and I guess it was your father’s before. I’m so sorry for your loss.

I read your messages, all of them. At first, I didn’t know what to do. But then, I started looking forward to them. You reminded me that I wasn’t alone, either. I lost my daughter four years ago. Natalie. She used to text her mother and me about everything when she was at college too.

I didn’t mean to scare you or hurt you. I just wanted you to know that you’re not crazy. And you’re not alone. And that your father has a loving and kind daughter with a beautiful soul. But I can see your pain.

If you ever need anything, anytime, reach out to me.

My vision blurred. A knot I didn’t know I had in my chest loosened. This man hadn’t been trying to hurt me. It was honestly just a coincidence. I decided to reply.

You scared me. Oh my goodness.

I know! I’m sorry! I had a patient, and I couldn’t use my phone.

Yeah, I know, I texted. Her name was Lauren, and you were about to check her blood pressure.

There was silence. No three dots indicating that he was replying.

How do you know that? Now I’m feeling uncomfortable!

I actually laughed to myself.

Because it was me. I ran out because I saw my messages pop up on your phone. It scared me, and I panicked.

There was another pause. And then my phone rang.

His voice was steady but filled with something raw and unfiltered.

“I never meant for you to find out this way,” he said. “But I think fate had a different plan. I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to find out in the first place.”

And suddenly, we were talking. About my dad, about his daughter, and about grief. We spoke about loss and the strange ways that the universe seemed to bring people together.

By the end of the call, I felt lighter. Like a part of my burden had been shared with someone who knew loss.

I laughed.

“I will,” I agreed. “Thank you, Henry, for letting me talk about my father. On the phone now, and through all of those texts.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he chuckled softly. “But I do need to know how your roommate set fire to spaghetti. That was one of the best texts I’ve ever gotten.”

We arranged to meet each other at a diner the following week.

“Lauren, we’re supposed to be doing your check-up, not eating greasy food,” he said.

“Henry, I need a pick-me-up,” I laughed. “You can schedule me in before my final exams. In about a week.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Now, order away. My treat.”

We sat there for hours, drinking milkshakes, eating fries, and ending it off with a slice of apple pie.

Suddenly, color seemed to filter back into my life. I didn’t feel as alone. My heart still yearned for my parents, but Henry had started to patch some of that yearning. He told me about his daughter and how she loved burgers.

“Seriously, Lo,” he said. “Nat would probably have had no problem selling her soul for a good burger.”

And in the end, he promised to introduce me to his wife.

“Margot will adore you,” he said simply.

And like that, joy made her way back into my life.

What would you have done?

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.