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. Yet when I entered his house for the first time since his death, I discovered something in the attic… something that brought me to tears.
Grief doesn’t fade. It sinks deep, settling into the quiet spaces of your life, patiently waiting to remind you of what you’ve lost. Thirteen years have passed since my father, Patrick, died, and not a day goes by without his absence weighing on me.
He wasn’t just my father—he was my entire world. After Mom abandoned me at birth, he was my only parent, my fierce protector, and my home. And when he died, my life became a haunting void I never truly learned to fill.
A grave in a cemetery | Source: Pixabay
I never went back to his house after his death. I couldn’t. As soon as I walked in after the funeral, the silence crushed me. Every room was a painful echo of his laughter, his warmth, and the way he hummed while making coffee.
Staying was impossible. So, I left. But I never sold the house because I wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe deep down, I knew I would return one day. And that day came 13 years later.
I stood again on the porch, an old copper key in my hand.
“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was everything. It contained my father’s laughter, his endless advice and wisdom, and all our memories.
An abandoned house that stands against the sands of time | Source: Midjourney
I leaned my forehead against the door. “Dad,” I choked out, “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree Dad had planted when I was born. I remember him saying, “This tree will grow with you, my child. Strong roots and branches reaching toward the sky.”
I thought I only needed old documents. That’s what I told myself. I’d take them and leave. I wouldn’t linger, I wouldn’t rummage through memories. Just go in and out.
But grief doesn’t work like that. And neither does love.
So I turned the key and went in.
An emotional woman feels nostalgic as she enters a house | Source: Midjourney
“Welcome home, little one.” Dad’s voice echoed in my ears… that same voice and that same enthusiasm every time he saw me walk through the door.
It wasn’t real. It was just my mind playing tricks on me. But for a second, I swore I heard his voice.
And just like that, I wasn’t 32 anymore. I was 17, walking home from school to find Dad in the kitchen, flipping through the newspaper, waiting to ask me how my day had gone.
A smiling elderly man sitting on the sofa | Source: Midjourney
“Dad?” I called instinctively, my voice echoing through the empty house. The silence that followed was deafening.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my feet forward, wiping away a stray tear. I was here for the documents. Nothing else.
But the house had other plans.
An emotional woman rubbing her face | Source: Midjourney
The attic smelled of dust and forgotten years.
I opened box after box, sifting through old papers while trying to stay focused.
But it was impossible. Every little thing—Dad’s old flannel jacket, a half-empty box of his favorite mints, and the framed photo of us at my high school graduation—felt like a punch in the gut.
Priceless belongings of a lost loved one hidden in a wooden chest | Source: Midjourney
I hugged the flannel to my chest, breathing in the faint scent that still emanated from it.
“You promised you’d be at my graduation,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
The jacket offered no response, but I could almost hear it say , “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would have moved heaven and earth to be there.”
I wiped my eyes and kept looking. Then I saw it: a worn leather bag tucked behind a pile of old books. My breath caught. I knew that bag.
An old leather bag in the attic | Source: Midjourney
My fingers trembled when I opened it, and there, right on top, was a folded note… a letter from my father, written to me, all those years ago.
My chest tightened as I unfolded it, my vision blurred as I read:
“We’ll play together when you pass the entrance exams, my pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!”
A sob escaped my lips before I could stop it.
“You never got to see me pass them,” I cried, clutching the note to my heart. “You never knew I passed, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said.”
A sad woman holding a piece of paper | Source: Midjourney
My voice broke as I whispered, “Were you watching somewhere? Did you see me walk through that scene? Did you see what I became?”
I knew exactly what was inside the bag.
Our old game console.
Dad and I used to play together every weekend. It was our thing. We had one game we always came back to—a racing simulator. I was terrible at it, and he was a real champ. Whenever I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day you’ll beat me, baby. But not today.”
The memory hit me so hard that I fell to my knees, sobbing.
Nostalgic photo of a cheerful elderly man playing a video game | Source: Midjourney
“Remember that time I got so frustrated I threw the controller away?” I said to the empty room, laughing through my tears. “And you looked at me and said…”
“It’s just a game, my pumpkin. The real race is life, and you’re winning it by a long shot.”
I could hear his voice so clearly it made my heart ache. I traced my fingers over the console, then over the note, and the past came flooding back to me.
I promised him I’d become a nurse and help people. And that’s what I did. I made it through medical school, worked grueling shifts, and paid off my debts. But I never got to play that game with him again.
A member of the medical staff | Source: Pexels
“I did it, Dad,” I whispered. “I became a nurse. I saved lives. I wish… I wish you could have seen it.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, I carried the console downstairs, plugged it into the old living room television, and turned it on. The screen flickered as the startup music filled the air.
And then… I saw it. A ghost car on the starting line. My father’s car.
I covered my mouth, a fresh wave of tears pouring down on me. It was his old record.
An old TV with a flashing car racing game on the screen | Source: Midjourney
In this game, when a player set a record time, their ghost car would appear in future races – driving the exact path they took, over and over again, waiting for someone to beat it.
Dad had left a part of himself there… a challenge and a race I was never able to complete.
“Dad,” I whispered, “Is this how you talk to me? After all these years?”
A sad woman holding a game console | Source: Midjourney
I remembered the night before his last hospital stay. We had played this same game.
“I don’t feel good about leaving you tomorrow,” he said, trying to hide his worry.
“It’s just a check-up, Dad,” I replied, not knowing these would be our last moments together. “You’ll be back before you know it.”
“Promise me something,” he said, suddenly serious. “Promise me you’ll keep running errands, even when I’m not here.”
I didn’t understand at the time. Now I understand.
An emotionally overwhelmed elderly man lying in a hospital bed | Source: Midjourney
I grabbed the controller and took a shaky breath. “Okay, Dad,” I whispered. “Let’s play.”
The countdown has begun.
3… 2… 1… LET’S GO!
I hit the accelerator, and my car ripped down the track next to his.
The ghost car was moving exactly as I remembered it—impeccable cornering and perfect acceleration. I could almost hear its laughter and teasing voice. “Come on, pumpkin, you have to push harder than that.”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears, gripping the controller tighter. “You’ve always been a show-off on this track!”
I pushed. Race after race, I tried to catch him. But like before, he was always in front.
A TV screen flashes a car leading the race in a game | Source: Midjourney
“You’re holding back,” I could almost hear him say. “You always do that when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I argued to the ghost car. “I’m just… I’m not ready to say goodbye again.”
And for the first time in 13 years, I felt like he was there with me.
It took hours, but I finally got there. On the last lap, I finally pulled away. 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.
A woman playing a video game | Source: Midjourney
My thumb hovered over the accelerator button.
“Dad,” I whispered, “if I let you win, will you stay? Can I race with you again tomorrow?”
The ghost car continued on its way, oblivious to my plea.
“I miss you so much,” I sobbed. “Every day. I have so much to tell you… about my work, about my life. There are days when I still pick up the phone to call you.”
And then I let go. I watched his ghost car pass me, crossing the finish line first.
Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. I didn’t want to erase it. I wanted to keep playing with him.
Rear shot of a woman playing a video game alone | Source: Midjourney
I whispered through my sobs, “I love you, Daddy.”
Then, with a shaky smile, I added, “The game is still on.”
I brought the console home that night. And every now and then, when the world feels too heavy and I miss it so much it hurts… I turn it on. And I race it.
Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer. Because some games should never end.
As I set up the console in my apartment, I found myself talking to it as if it were sitting right next to me.
An older man sitting on the couch | Source: Midjourney
“You know, Dad, there was this patient today. He reminded me so much of you… he was stubborn as hell, but with the kindest eyes. I told him about our races, and he told me his daughter used to play with him too.”
I sat cross-legged on the floor, just like I did when I was a teenager.
“Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me now,” I continued, selecting the track of his ghost car. “Would you be proud? Would you tell me I work too hard? You always said I should take more breaks.”
I turned around, remembering Dad’s laughter. The race began, and as always, his ghost car pulled ahead.
A woman turning around while playing a video game | Source: Midjourney
“There are days when I’m so mad at you for leaving,” I admitted, my voice barely audible over the game’s music. “And then there are days when I’m just grateful I had you.”
As the race continued, I felt something shift inside me – a weight I had been carrying for 13 years began to lift.
“I think I’m ready now, Dad,” I said, wiping away the hot beads of tears. “Not to let you go… ever. But to let you be a part of my life again, instead of just my heartbreak.”
I crossed the finish line behind his ghost car once again.
A cheerful woman holding a game console | Source: Midjourney
Putting down the controller, I walked to the window and looked up at the night sky. “I hope wherever you are, you can see me. I hope you know I’m okay. Not perfect, but okay.”
I touched the worn console and smiled through my tears. “And I hope you know that every race we do and every time I see your ghost car, it’s like I’m finding a part of you again.”
I curled up on the couch, the controller still in my hand, and for the first time in years, the memories didn’t hurt so much.
“Good night, Dad,” I whispered. “Same time next weekend?”
And in the quiet of my apartment, with the game’s hold music playing softly, I could almost hear him reply, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, pumpkin.”
Nostalgic photo of an elderly man excited to play a video game | Source: Midjourney
Because love doesn’t die. It transforms. It becomes the ghost car we chase, the voice we hear in empty rooms, and the strength we find when we think we have none left.
Sometimes it becomes a never-ending game, a connection that transcends time, space, and even death itself. A game where losing means winning, and where playing is more important than the outcome… a game called love.
And as I drifted off to sleep, controller in hand, I knew one thing for sure: as long as I kept running and as long as I kept his memory alive, my father would never truly be gone.
He would always be there, by my side, a lap ahead, waiting for me to catch up. And one day, I would. But not today. Today, I just wanted to race my dad.
An elderly man holding a game console and looking at someone with despair in his eyes | Source: Midjourney
Here’s another story : Samantha faced the biggest nightmare of her life when her husband’s mistress kicked her out of their house. Poor Samantha thought she had lost until an unexpected visit from her mother-in-law changed everything.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims regarding the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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