My husband Charles died in a car crash when our daughter Susie was just two weeks old—or so I was told. His mother, Diane, handled everything: closed casket, quick cremation. She said it was “for my own good.” At 23, I was too shattered to question it.
Eighteen years passed. I raised Susie alone, feeding her stories and photos of the father she never knew. Then, one night, I heard her on the phone: “I miss you too, Dad.” She claimed it was a wrong number, but I checked the call log. I dialed it. A man answered. “Susie?” he said—voice warm, familiar. It was Charles.
