My husband died shortly after the birth of our daughter, Susie. She was still a newborn. She never got to know him, never heard his voice, never felt his presence beyond the stories I told and the photographs I kept.
Susie is 18 now. She has grown into a thoughtful, quiet young woman. Sometimes I see traces of her father in her expressions or the way she thinks, even though she never truly met him.
One evening, while walking past the hallway, I heard her speaking on the landline. We still keep it mostly for emergencies. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
Then I heard the words that made me stop cold.
She said, “Okay, Dad, I miss you too.”
For a moment, I couldn’t move. I knew I had heard her correctly. Susie noticed me standing there and quickly hung up the phone.
Trying to stay calm, I asked her who she had been talking to.
She avoided my eyes and said, “No one. Wrong number.”
Then she went to her room.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the phone, uneasy and confused. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the moment over and over, trying to find a harmless explanation. But nothing made sense.
Eventually, curiosity and concern pushed me to act. I checked the landline call log. One number stood out. I didn’t recognize it.
I dialed the number.
The phone rang a few times before someone answered. No one spoke, but I could hear breathing on the other end of the line.
Just as I was about to hang up, a voice quietly said my daughter’s name.
“Susie…”
My stomach dropped. I ended the call immediately and sat there in silence.
The next morning, I spoke to my daughter. I didn’t accuse her or raise my voice. I simply asked her to tell me the truth.
She broke down and told me everything.
The person on the phone was not her father. It was a man who had found her online months earlier. He knew my husband’s name from an old memorial post and used that information to gain her trust. At first, he claimed to be a family friend. Over time, he began calling her, telling her stories about her father and speaking to her as if he had known her all her life.
Susie admitted she wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel close to the father she never had. The calls made her feel less alone.
We contacted the authorities, changed our phone numbers, and locked down her online accounts. Most importantly, we talked—openly and honestly—about grief, trust, and how vulnerable loss can make a person.
Susie is safe now.
But the experience changed me.
I realized that grief doesn’t disappear with time. It stays quietly in the background, and if you’re not careful, someone else can use it to hurt the people you love.
I couldn’t protect my daughter from losing her father. But I can protect her from anyone who tries to take advantage of that loss.
And that is something I will never stop doing.
