They say time heals all wounds, but grief doesn’t follow rules. It lingers, hiding in the quiet corners of your life, waiting for moments to remind you of what you’ve lost. Thirteen years have passed since my father, Patrick, died, and not a single 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 became everything—my protector, my guide, my home. When he was gone, a void swallowed me, and I never truly found a way to fill it.
I never went back to his house after his death. I couldn’t. The moment I stepped inside after the funeral, the silence crushed me. Every room felt haunted by his laughter, his presence, the way he hummed while making coffee. It was too much to bear.
So I left. But I never sold the house. Something deep inside told me I wasn’t ready to let go. Maybe I knew, even back then, that one day I would return.
And that day had finally come.
I stood on the porch, an old copper key in my trembling hand. My stomach twisted as I stared at the door.
“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was everything. It held my father’s warmth, his wisdom, and all the memories of our life together.
I pressed my forehead against the wooden door. “Dad,” I choked out, “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
The wind stirred the leaves of the old oak tree he had planted the year I was born. I could still hear him say, “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots, and branches reaching for the sky. Just like you.”
I told myself I was here for one reason: to grab some old documents and leave. No lingering. No digging through the past. Just in and out.
But grief doesn’t work that way. And neither does love.
I turned the key and stepped inside.
“Welcome home, kiddo.” My father’s voice echoed in my ears. The same words he said every time I walked through the door.
I knew it wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks. But for a second, I could almost hear him.
And suddenly, I wasn’t 32 anymore. I was 17, coming home from school, tossing my backpack onto the couch, and hearing Dad call from the kitchen, “How was your day, pumpkin?”
“Dad?” I whispered instinctively. My voice echoed back in the empty house.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to move. I was here for the documents. That was all.
But the house had other plans.
The attic smelled of dust and forgotten years.
I opened box after box, trying to stay focused. But it was impossible. Every little thing I touched—his old flannel jacket, a half-empty tin of his favorite mints, a framed picture of us at my high school graduation—felt like a punch to the gut.
I held the flannel close, inhaling deeply. Faint traces of his scent still clung to it.
“You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered, tears falling onto the worn fabric. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
Of course, there was 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 pile of books. My heart pounded. I knew this bag.
My hands shook as I unzipped it. Right on top was a folded piece of paper. A letter. From my father.
I unfolded 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 tore through me.
“You never got to see me pass them,” I cried, clutching the letter to my chest. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
I knew what else was inside 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 game. He was a champion at it, and I was terrible. Whenever 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 the attic floor, sobbing.
“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 carried the console downstairs, hooked it up to the old TV, and turned it on. The familiar startup music filled the room.
And then… I saw it. A ghost car at the starting line. My father’s car.
I covered my mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling over.
In this game, when a player sets a record time, their ghost car appears in future races—repeating their path over and over, waiting for someone to beat them.
Dad had left a piece of himself here. A race I never finished.
“Dad,” I whispered, “is this your way of talking to me?”
I remembered our last race, the night before he went to the hospital.
“Promise me something,” he had said. “Promise me you’ll keep racing, even when I’m not here.”
I hadn’t understood then. But I did now.
I gripped the controller and took a deep breath. “Alright, Dad,” I whispered. “Let’s play.”
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1… GO!
The ghost car shot forward, just like I remembered. Perfect turns, perfect speed. I could almost hear his teasing voice. “Come on, pumpkin, push harder than that!”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears. “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.
And then, on the final lap, I finally pulled ahead. The finish line was right there. One more second, and I’d win. One more second, and his ghost car would disappear.
My thumb hovered over the gas button.
“Dad… if I let you win, will you stay? Will I get to race you again tomorrow?”
But the ghost car kept going, oblivious to my silent plea.
Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, “I miss you so much. Every single day.”
And then, I let go. I watched as his ghost car passed me, crossing the finish line first.
I didn’t want to erase him. I wanted to keep playing with him.
I whispered, “I love you, Dad.”
And then, with a trembling smile, I added, “The game is still on.”
Now, every time life feels too heavy, I turn on the console. I race him. Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer.
Because love doesn’t die. It just changes form.
And some games? They never really end.
