I heard my daughter whisper "I miss you, Daddy" on the phone – I buried her father 18 years ago

That night, after she went to bed, I did something I'd never done before. I went snooping around.

It wasn't difficult to access the landline call log. That's where it appeared. A number I didn't recognize.

I looked at it for a long time before the composer.

The ringing echoed in the silence. I was about to hang up. My thumb hovered over the button. I thought to myself, "This is madness."

And then, a breath.

Gentle. Masculine. Familiar.

"Susie," the voice murmured. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't call again tonight."

I couldn't breathe anymore.

“Who is it?” I asked, even though deep down I already knew.

A thick, deliberate silence followed.

One click.

The call was disconnected.

I sat there, clutching my phone, as waves of confusion and horror washed over me.

Charles was dead. I knew he was dead. I had mourned him. I had buried him, or at least I thought I had.

Did I say goodbye to a man who had never been in that coffin?