People say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Thirteen years after my father’s death, I still felt him everywhere—in the whistle of the kettle, in the way sunlight fell across the floor, in the reflex to call someone who would never answer. He wasn’t just my dad; he was my entire world. My mother left the day I was born, but he stayed for everything that came after.
I hadn’t been inside his house since the funeral. The silence that day had felt alive, as if it wanted to swallow me whole. I locked the door, slipped the key onto a chain, and tucked it away because I couldn’t bear to wear it. I never sold the house, though. I told myself I’d go back someday for paperwork. In truth, I was just too afraid to face it.
That day finally came. I stood on the porch with the old copper key warm in my palm. “You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered, though I didn’t believe it. That house wasn’t just a house. It was a body trying to breathe without its heart.
The oak tree by the steps rustled in the wind. My father had planted it the day I was born, saying, “Strong roots, kiddo. Reach for the sky, but stay grounded.” I pressed my forehead against the door. “I don’t know how to do this without you,” I murmured, then turned the key.
For a split second, my mind betrayed me—I thought I heard his voice: “Welcome home, kiddo.” Without thinking, I whispered back, “Dad?” The echo swallowed the word whole.
I reminded myself I was only there for a file, not a trip through the past. But when I opened the attic hatch, the dust lifted like an audience waiting for me.
Boxes, sweaters faded by time, a half-empty tin of mints, one of his old flannels that still carried a hint of his cologne. A photo of us at my graduation—his hand on my shoulder, his smile steady and proud. I pressed my face into the flannel and whispered, “You promised you’d see me finish college.” The jacket couldn’t answer, but in my heart I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven to be there.”
Then I saw it—a scuffed leather bag shoved behind a pile of books. I recognized it instantly. It held years of weekends, laughter, and late nights spent playing games together. My hands trembled as I unzipped it. On top was a folded note with my name written in his familiar handwriting.
We’ll play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m so proud of you!
The attic seemed to tilt. “You didn’t get to see it,” I cried. “I passed, Dad. You were right about me.” I pressed the note to my chest. I already knew what was inside that bag—our old game console.
Racing games had been our ritual. He was unbeatable, and I was all clumsy hands and frustration. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day you’ll beat me—but not today.” When I’d pout, he’d add, “It’s just a game, kiddo. The real race is life, and you’re already ahead.”
I carried the console downstairs like it was an urn. When the TV flickered on and the familiar startup tune played, there it was—a ghost car waiting at the starting line. The game saved your fastest run as a translucent version of your car, looping endlessly, waiting for someone to catch it.
“You left me a race,” I whispered. My mind jumped back to our last night together before the hospital. “Promise me you’ll keep racing, even when I’m not here,” he’d said. I hadn’t understood then. Now I did.
I picked up the controller. “Alright, Dad. Let’s play.”
Three… two… one… go.
His ghost car shot forward, smooth and confident. Perfect turns. No hesitation. It sounded like laughter on four wheels. “Push harder, kiddo,” I could almost hear. “You’re holding back.”
“I’m trying,” I whispered through tears, ridiculous and smiling all at once. Lap after lap, I closed the distance. I learned his lines the way I learned his lessons—through love and persistence.
Hours passed before I finally pulled ahead. The finish line glowed. One more breath and I’d win. One more breath and his name would vanish from the top of the screen, replaced by mine. My thumb hovered. “If I let you win, do you stay?” I asked the silence. The ghost car kept going.
“I miss you every day,” I said softly. “Sometimes I still call your number.” My thumb lifted. I let him win. His car crossed the line first.
It hurt like grace.
I took the console home. Now, on the hardest days at the hospital where I work, I turn it on. I sit cross-legged like a kid again and tell him about my patients—the stubborn one with kind eyes, the brave one who reminds me of him. I play his favorite track and let his ghost car glide ahead, just as he always did.
“You’d tell me to rest,” I whisper. “You’d say you’re proud of me. You’d tease me about my messy kitchen.” The music loops. His car drifts. The ache in me softens. I’m not ready to let him go, maybe I never will—but I’ve learned how to let him back in as something gentler.
One night, after finishing a race, I stood by the window watching the city lights. “If you can see me, I’m okay,” I said. “Not perfect. But okay.” The console hummed beside me. I rested my hand on its warm plastic. “Every time I race you, I get a piece of you back.”
I fell asleep with the controller still in my hand and a smile that hurt my cheeks. “Same time next weekend?” I whispered.
And in the quiet, I swear I heard, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, pumpkin.”
Love doesn’t die. It just changes form. Sometimes it’s a voice in the hum of a kitchen light, a warmth that lingers on your palm, or a ghost car that never leaves the track—pulling you forward, reminding you to keep going. One day, I’ll catch him. But not today. Today, I just want to race with my dad.