It started as a small habit—after her snack, she’d wipe her hands on her dress and head to the door. No toys, no distractions. Just waiting. Sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, whispering updates like, “Daddy, it rained today.”
At first, we found it sweet. Then it became routine. Rain or shine, she was there—and he always came. Until today.
She waited, same as always. Wrinkled dress, messy hair, hopeful eyes. I tried to distract her, but she insisted, “Maybe he’s just stuck in traffic.” I nodded—because how do you tell a child that her dad isn’t coming home?
Two months ago, we buried him. A drunk driver. Gone in seconds.
She knows he’s in heaven, but kids don’t grieve in straight lines. They hope. They wait.
As the sun set, she quietly asked, “Do they have doors in heaven?” I choked back tears and said, “Maybe Daddy’s waiting at his door too.”
She nodded, pressed her hand to the glass, and whispered, “It’s okay if you’re late, Daddy. I’ll wait tomorrow too.”
Now she’s asleep in his old hoodie. And I’m here, heartbroken, watching love stretch beyond loss.
Because grief may linger—but so does hope.