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 awful at it, and he was a real champion. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”
The memory hit so hard that I fell to my knees, sobbing.
“It’s just a game, pumpkin. The real race is life, and you’re winning that one by miles.”
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.
I had promised him I’d become a nurse and help people. And I did. I got through med school, worked grueling shifts, and paid off my debts. But I never got to play that game with him again.
“I did it, Dad,” I whispered. “I became a nurse. I’ve saved lives. I wish… I wish you could have seen it.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, I carried the console downstairs, hooked it up to the old TV in the living room, and turned it on. The screen flickered as the startup music filled the air.
And then… I saw it. A ghost car at the starting line. My father’s car.
I covered my mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. It was his old record.
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