They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow rules. Thirteen years have passed since my father died, and not a single day goes by without me missing him. But when I stepped into his house for the first time since his death, I found something in the attic—something that brought me to my knees in tears.
Grief doesn’t fade away like people say it does. Instead, it burrows deep, hiding in the quiet spaces of your life, waiting for the right moment to remind you of what you’ve lost. For thirteen years, my heart carried the weight of losing my father, Patrick.
He wasn’t just my dad—he was my whole world. After my mother abandoned me at birth, he became everything. He was my fierce protector, my guide, my home. When he died, a part of me died too. The world moved on, but I felt stuck in time, unable to fill the void he left behind.
I never returned to his house after the funeral. I just couldn’t. The silence inside crushed me. Every room still held his presence—the way he used to hum while making coffee, the sound of his laughter echoing off the walls. It was too much.
So I left. But I never sold the house. Something inside me wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe, deep down, I always knew I would return. And that day came, thirteen years later.
I stood on the front porch, staring at the chipped wooden door. The old copper key felt cold and heavy in my hand. My stomach twisted with nerves.
“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was the last piece of my father that still remained.
I pressed my forehead against the door, my throat tightening. “Dad,” I choked out, “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
The wind rustled the leaves of the old oak tree in the yard—the same tree my dad had planted the year I was born. I could still hear his words in my mind: “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots and branches reaching for the sky.”
I told myself I was only here to get some documents. That was the plan. Get in, grab them, and leave. No lingering. No digging through memories.
But grief doesn’t follow plans. And neither does love.
I turned the key and stepped inside.
“Welcome home, kiddo.” His voice echoed in my head, just like he used to say every time I walked through that door.
It wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks. But for a moment, it felt like it was.
Suddenly, I wasn’t 32 anymore. I was 17, stepping inside after school, finding Dad in the kitchen, flipping through the newspaper, waiting to ask me how my day had been.
“Dad?” I called out instinctively, my voice shaky. The silence that followed felt unbearable.
I swallowed hard and forced myself forward, wiping away a tear. Documents. I was here for the documents.
But the house had other plans.
The attic smelled like dust and forgotten years. I pulled open box after box, sifting through papers, trying to stay focused.
But every little thing stopped me.
Dad’s old flannel jacket, still smelling faintly of him. A half-empty can of his favorite mints. A framed picture of us at my high school graduation.
I pressed the flannel to my chest, breathing in the scent. “You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
The jacket offered no response, but in my heart, I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there.”
I wiped my tears and kept searching. Then, my eyes landed on something tucked behind a stack of books—a worn-out leather bag. My breath hitched. I knew this bag.
With trembling hands, I unzipped it and found a folded note on top. My father’s handwriting. A letter he had written for me years ago.
My fingers shook as I opened it, my vision blurring as I read:
“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 whispered, tears falling onto the paper. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
I knew exactly what was inside the bag now.
Our old game console.
Dad and I used to play together every weekend. We had one favorite game—a racing simulator. He was unbeatable, a real champion, and I was terrible at it. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”
I clutched the console to my chest, the memory hitting me so hard I fell to my knees.
“Remember when I got so mad I threw the controller?” I laughed 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 could hear his voice so clearly, it hurt.
I carried the console downstairs, hooked it up to the old TV, and turned it on. The startup music filled the room. And then… I saw it.
A ghost car at the starting line.
Dad’s car.
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 beat them.
He had left a part of himself behind. A challenge. A race we never finished.
“Alright, Dad,” I whispered, gripping the controller. “Let’s play.”
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1… GO!
I hit the gas, my car speeding down the track beside his. His ghost car was perfect, like always—flawless turns, perfect acceleration. I could almost hear his laughter. “Come on, pumpkin, you gotta push harder than that.”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed, gripping the controller tighter. “You always were a show-off on this track!”
Race after race, I tried to catch him. But just like before, he was always ahead.
“You’re holding back,” I could almost hear him say. “You always do that when you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered. “I just… I’m not ready to say goodbye again.”
And for the first time in thirteen years, it felt like he was there with me.
I finally pulled ahead. 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?”
Tears streamed down my face as I eased off the gas, watching his ghost car cross the finish line first.
I didn’t want to erase him. I just wanted to keep playing with him.
“The game is still on, Dad,” I whispered with a smile.
I took the console home that night. And whenever I miss him too much, I turn it on.
Not to win. Just to race with him one more time.
Because some games never end.
