They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow rules. Thirteen years have passed since I lost my father, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. He wasn’t just my dad—he was my whole world. After my mother abandoned me at birth, he raised me alone. He was my protector, my teacher, and my home. When he died, it felt like my life lost its foundation.
I never returned to his house after the funeral. I couldn’t. The moment I stepped inside, the silence was unbearable. Every room was an echo of his laughter, his warmth, the sound of him humming while making coffee. Staying was impossible, so I left. But I never sold the house. I wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe, deep down, I knew I’d come back one day.
That day arrived thirteen years later.
I stood on the old wooden porch, an aged copper key in my trembling hand. The wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree my dad planted when I was born. He used to say, “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots, branches reaching for the sky.”
I took a shaky breath and whispered, “You can do this, Lindsay. It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was everything. It held the echoes of my father’s voice, his wisdom, our memories.
I pressed my forehead against the door, my voice barely a whisper. “Dad, I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
Finally, I turned the key and stepped inside.
For a moment, I swore I heard it—the familiar, cheerful voice that used to greet me every time I came home.
“Welcome home, kiddo.”
It wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks. But for that brief second, I was seventeen again, walking through the door after school, seeing Dad at the kitchen table, flipping through the newspaper, waiting to ask me how my day was.
“Dad?” I called out instinctively, my voice echoing through the empty house.
Silence.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to move forward. I was here for one reason—to grab some old documents. Nothing else. No lingering. No getting lost in memories.
But grief doesn’t work that way. And neither does love.
The attic smelled like dust and time.
I climbed the creaky stairs, coughing as I disturbed years of still air. Boxes were stacked everywhere, filled with forgotten moments. I rummaged through them, determined to find the papers and leave. But every little thing was a punch to the gut.
Dad’s old flannel jacket. A half-empty can of his favorite mints. A framed photo of us at my high school graduation. I held the flannel to my chest, inhaling the faint scent that still clung to it.
“You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
The jacket offered no answer, but I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there.”
I wiped my eyes and kept searching. That’s when I saw it—a worn-out leather bag tucked behind a stack of old books. My breath hitched. I knew this bag.
Hands shaking, I unzipped it. Inside, sitting right on top, was a folded note. A letter from my father, written years ago.
My chest tightened as I read the words: “We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!”
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
“You never got to see me pass them,” I choked out. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
I knew what else was in the bag now—our old game console.
Dad and I used to play every weekend. We had one game we always came back to—a racing simulator. I was terrible at it, and he was a champion. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”
The memory hit so hard I collapsed onto my knees, sobbing.
“Remember that time I got so frustrated I threw the controller?” I said to the empty room, laughing through my tears. “And you just looked at me and said…”
“It’s just a game, pumpkin. The real race is life, and you’re winning that one by miles.”
I ran my fingers over the console, my heart aching. Without thinking, I carried it downstairs, hooked it up to the old TV, and turned it on.
The screen flickered. The familiar startup music filled the room. And then… I saw it.
A ghost car at the starting line. My father’s car.
My hands flew to my mouth as fresh tears spilled over. In this game, when a player set a record time, their ghost car would appear in future races, driving the same path over and over, waiting for someone to challenge it.
Dad had left a piece of himself here. A challenge I had never completed.
I gripped the controller, my breath shaky. “Alright, Dad,” I whispered. “Let’s race.”
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1… GO!
I hit the gas, my car speeding down the track beside his ghost. It moved just as I remembered—flawless turns, perfect acceleration. I could almost hear him laughing.
“Come on, pumpkin, you gotta push harder than that.”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears. “You always were a show-off on this track!”
I pushed. Race after race, I tried to beat him. But just like before, he was always ahead.
“You’re holding back,” I imagined him saying. “You always do that when you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered. “I’m just… not ready to say goodbye again.”
For the first time in thirteen years, it felt like he was with me.
After hours of trying, I finally pulled ahead on the last lap. The finish line was right there. One more second, and I’d win. One more second, and I’d erase his ghost from the game.
My thumb hovered over the gas button.
“Dad,” I whispered, “if I let you win, will you stay?”
The ghost car kept moving, unaware of my silent plea.
“I miss you so much,” I sobbed. “Every single day.”
And then… I let go.
I watched as his ghost car crossed the finish line first.
Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. I didn’t want to erase him. I wanted to keep racing him.
“I love you, Dad,” I whispered. Then, with a trembling smile, I added, “The game is still on.”
I took the console home that night. And every now and then, when the world feels too heavy, when I miss him so much it hurts… I turn it on. And I race him.
Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer. Because some games should never end.
