The Call I Never Answered
The night before my father’s funeral, I couldn’t sleep. Guilt clawed at me—haunted by the call I never returned. But it wasn’t just grief keeping me awake. It was the strange voicemail trail, my mother-in-law’s icy hug, and one bizarre question about 1981 that would unravel everything.
The Night Before
The kitchen clock ticked louder than my heartbeat. Every sound—the fridge humming, the wooden chair groaning under my weight—echoed like I was trapped in a cave.
I stirred my tea, long gone cold and bitter. I didn’t care.
My eyes kept flicking to my phone. The screen was dark, but I knew what I’d see if I turned it on—four missed calls from Dad.
The last one had come while I was driving. I’d told him, “I’ll call you back.”
I never did.
Now, that regret was a knife twisting in my ribs. Our last moment wasn’t an “I love you.” It was silence.
Footsteps broke through my thoughts. Adam, my husband, stood in the doorway, his face shadowed with exhaustion. But when he saw me, his expression softened.
“Lucy… you okay?” His voice was gentle, like he was afraid I’d shatter.
I shook my head. “No. What if he wanted to tell me something? What if he just needed to hear my voice?”
Adam sat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, his warmth dulling the ache—just a little.
Then my phone buzzed.
Adam frowned. “My mom called you four times yesterday.”
I let out a dry laugh. “That’s not like her.”
“Maybe she wanted to say something,” he said carefully. “She’s been… off lately.”
I scoffed. “She can’t stand me, Adam. I’ve tried. All I get is cold stares and fake smiles.”
He didn’t argue. He knew it was true.
“Still,” he murmured, “maybe this is different.”
I shook my head. “Not today. I can’t deal with her too.”
We sat in heavy silence, the kind that presses down on your chest.
Finally, Adam stood and held out his hand. “Come to bed?”
I took it.
But even with his arms around me, sleep never came.
The Funeral
The living room buzzed with hushed voices and stifled sobs. The air smelled like coffee and casseroles—funeral food.
I floated through it all, numb.
Then I saw her.
Carol.
Adam’s mother stood by the window in a sleek black dress, pearls glinting under the lamplight. She always looked perfect—like she’d stepped out of an old movie.
I expected her to ignore me.
Instead, she walked over and gave me a stiff, awkward hug.
“I’m sorry, Lucy,” she said softly. “Your father was a good man.”
I blinked. “Thank you.”
Then her voice dropped.
“Did your dad ever mention… 1981?”
The question hit me like ice water. “What?”
She forced a smile. “Just wondering. He spent time in Nebraska that year, didn’t he?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah… a work trip. Why?”
“Oh… nothing.” She turned away quickly.
But the question burned in my mind.
Why 1981?
The Letter
The next morning, I shuffled into the kitchen, still in pajamas, when I heard the mail hit the floor.
A thick white envelope sat on the mat. My name was written in elegant script.
Sealed with red wax.
Of course. Only Carol would send a letter like we were in a Victorian novel.
I tore it open.
“Dear Lucy,” it began, “I know we’ve never been close. I admit I was hard on you.”
I snorted. Understatement.
“Grief changes things. Now that your father is gone, there’s no reason we can’t be friends.”
My fingers tightened on the paper.
No reason?
Why did his death matter to her?
And why did she say it like he was the only thing standing in her way?
The Postcard
I stormed to Dad’s old desk, yanking open the drawer. Pens, papers, loose keys—then, tucked in the back, a small box.
Inside were faded postcards.
I flipped through them—then froze.
Nebraska. 1981.
The return address was still there.
I had to go.
The Truth
The drive to Nebraska felt endless. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I pulled up to the address on the postcard.
A small white house. A green porch swing swaying in the wind.
I knocked.
The door creaked open. A silver-haired man in flannel stood there, leaning on a cane.
“Can I help you?”
I held up the postcard. “Did you know James Harper?”
His eyes lit up. “Jimmy? Of course. He was my best friend.”
“I’m his daughter.”
The man—Walter—smiled warmly. “Come in.”
His living room was cozy, full of old books and photos. I sat on a squeaky plaid couch.
“This is strange,” I admitted, “but someone asked me about 1981. My dad was here then. Do you remember anything?”
Walter chuckled. “Sure. We worked at the plant, drank too much, went dancing. Just young and dumb.”
I pulled out a photo of Carol.
His smile vanished.
“That’s Carol,” he said quietly. “We met that summer. Had a… thing.”
My stomach twisted. “Did you stay in touch?”
He shook his head. “No. She told me she was pregnant. Said she was keeping the baby. Then she disappeared.”
I swallowed hard. “My husband was born in 1982.”
Walter’s eyes widened. “Carol is your mother-in-law?”
I nodded.
He leaned back, stunned. “Then… I think I’m Adam’s father.”
The Confrontation
Carol opened her front door, her face going pale when she saw Walter standing beside me.
Her grip on the doorknob tightened.
“Carol,” Walter said firmly. “We need to talk.”
Adam stepped forward, confusion in his eyes. “What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath. “Carol… it’s time to tell him the truth.”
Her hands shook. “I was young. Scared. My parents didn’t approve of Walter.” She looked at Adam. “I left. Raised you alone. Then I met James… and I prayed he’d never tell.”
Adam’s voice was barely a whisper. “So… Walter’s my real father?”
Carol nodded, tears spilling. “I thought it was best if you never knew.”
Walter stepped forward. “I’m not here to ruin your life, Adam. I just want a chance.”
The room was silent.
Then Adam spoke, quiet but sure. “Let’s take it slow.”
After
That night, Adam and I sat on the porch, wrapped in a blanket. The stars burned brighter than usual.
“Funny,” he murmured, “how everything changes when you least expect it.”
I squeezed his hand. “At least now we know.”
He glanced at me. “And you and my mom?”
I smirked. “We’ll never be best friends. But maybe we’ll stop being enemies.”
Adam smiled, resting his head against mine. “That’s a start.”
And under the quiet night sky, something new began—fragile, honest, and full of hope.