I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13 Years and Found a Bag in the Attic with a Note for Me

“Dad,” I whispered, “if I let you win, will you stay? Will I be able to race you again tomorrow?”

The ghost car continued its path, oblivious to my pleading.

“I miss you so much,” I sobbed. “Every single day. I have so much to tell you… about my job, about my life. There are days I still pick up the phone to call you.”

And then I let go. I watched as his ghost car passed me, crossing the finish line first.

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. I didn’t want to erase him. I wanted to keep playing with him.

I whispered through my sobs, “I love you, Dad.”

And then, with a trembling smile, I added, “The game is still on.”

I took the console home that night. And every now and then, when the world feels too heavy and when I miss him so much it hurts… I turn it on. And I race him.

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 him as if he were sitting right beside me.

“You know, Dad, there was this patient today. Reminded me so much of you… he was stubborn as hell, but with the kindest eyes. I told him about our races, and he said his daughter used to play with him too.”

I sat cross-legged on the floor, exactly like I used to as a teenager.

“Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me now,” I continued, selecting his ghost car’s track. “Would you be proud? Would you tell me I’m working too hard? You always said I needed to take more breaks.”

Continue reading…