A Wrong Number Brought Me My Daughter… Kind Of
At 3:07 a.m., my phone rang—17 missed calls from my daughter’s old number. The message read: “Dad, please… help me. Hurry.”
I raced through the empty city, fearing the worst. When I burst into her apartment, she and her fiancé were asleep—she hadn’t called. The number… belonged to Helen. My youngest, taken by a drunk driver nearly a year ago.
Then another message: “I’m still here. Where are you?”
A terrified girl on the line explained her car had broken down on a dark rural road. She’d called the old number in panic—now mine. A photo arrived: rain-slicked asphalt, a flickering streetlight… the same kind of road where I lost Helen.
I stayed on the phone until she was safe. And for a few minutes, it felt like Helen was near—not haunting, but reminding me: love never truly leaves. It finds a way to reach you. 
