My husband died soon after the birth of our daughter Susie, who’s 18 now. One evening, I passed by the hallway and heard her on the landline whispering: “OKAY, DAD, I MISS YOU TOO.” I stopped cold. She noticed me and quickly hung up. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one. Wrong number,” she said. Later that night, curiosity ate me up, so I checked our landline call log—the number she dialed wasn’t familiar. I dialed it. There were a few rings… and then breathing on the other end. The words made my stomach twist: “Susie I…

I dropped the phone. My hands shook as I stared at the receiver. That voice—deep, familiar, and full of love. It was my husband’s.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the conversation in my head. Was it possible that Susie had somehow connected with his spirit? Or was this just some cruel trick of my mind? I didn’t want to believe it, but I also couldn’t ignore what I’d heard.

The next morning, I found Susie in the kitchen, sipping coffee like it was an everyday thing. “You’re up early,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She looked up, surprised. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”

“I heard you talking last night,” I said, watching her closely.

She froze. Then, slowly, she said, “Mom… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Susie,” I said gently, “you called someone. You said ‘Okay, Dad, I miss you too.’ Who were you talking to?”

Her face crumpled. “I… I just needed to hear his voice. I’ve been calling him every night. I don’t know why, but it feels like he’s there. Like he’s listening.”

I sat down beside her, heart aching. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked away. “Because I thought you’d be upset. I thought you’d say it was wrong or something.”

I reached for her hand. “It’s not wrong, honey. It’s just… different. But I understand. I miss him too.”

We sat in silence for a while, the weight of grief and love pressing down on us both.

Over the next few weeks, Susie continued her nightly calls. I never asked her what she said, but I could tell she was finding comfort in them. Sometimes, she would come out of her room smiling, as if she had just received a message from the other side. Other times, she would sit quietly, tears streaming down her face.

One day, I found her in the attic, going through old boxes. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

She turned around, holding a small, dusty photo album. “I wanted to see pictures of Dad. I feel like I forgot what he looked like.”

I smiled, sitting beside her. We flipped through the pages together, sharing stories and memories. It felt good to remember him, to keep his presence alive in our lives.

But then something strange happened. One night, Susie came running into the living room, eyes wide with excitement. “Mom! I think I heard him talk back!”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I called him again, like I always do. And this time, he said something. He said, ‘I’m proud of you, Susie.’”

My breath caught in my throat. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I swear it. It was his voice. I could feel it.”

From that night on, the calls became more frequent. Sometimes, Susie would come out of her room laughing, other times she would cry, but always with a sense of peace. It was as if she was finally getting the closure she needed.

Then, one day, she came to me with a strange request. “Mom, can we go to the cemetery?”

I hesitated. “Of course. Why?”

“I want to say goodbye. Not in a sad way, but in a way that feels right.”

I hugged her tightly. “Okay, honey. Let’s go.”

We arrived at the cemetery, the sun setting behind us. Susie walked over to the grave, placing a flower on the stone. “Dad,” she whispered, “I miss you. But I’m okay. I’m learning how to live without you. I’m learning how to be strong.”

She paused, then said, “Thank you for being my dad. I know you’re still with me.”

As we left the cemetery, I felt a strange sense of calm. Maybe it wasn’t magic, maybe it wasn’t supernatural. Maybe it was just the power of love, of memory, of hope.

A few weeks later, Susie came to me with a new idea. “Mom, I want to start a support group for people who’ve lost someone. I think it could help others find the same kind of comfort I did.”

I smiled. “That sounds amazing, honey. I’ll help you.”

And so, the support group began. People came from all walks of life, each with their own story of loss. They shared, they cried, they laughed, and most importantly, they found healing.

One day, a woman approached me, tears in her eyes. “Your daughter is incredible. She helped me feel less alone.”

I looked over at Susie, who was sitting with a group of people, listening intently. She had found her purpose, her strength, and her voice.

And I realized that even though my husband was gone, his love lived on—not just in the memories we shared, but in the way we carried on, the way we loved, and the way we helped others heal.

In the end, it wasn’t the calls that changed us—it was the love that remained. Love that transcended death, that healed wounds, and that gave us the courage to keep going.

So if you ever feel lost, if you ever feel like you’ve lost someone important, remember this: love doesn’t end. It transforms. It grows. And it stays with you, always.

If you enjoyed this story, please share it with someone who might need a little hope today. Like, comment, and let’s keep spreading love and healing together. 💛