It started as a small habit\u2014after her snack, she\u2019d wipe her hands on her dress and head to the door. No toys, no distractions. Just waiting. Sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, whispering updates like, \u201cDaddy, it rained today.\u201d<\/p>\n
At first, we found it sweet. Then it became routine. Rain or shine, she was there\u2014and he always came. Until today.<\/p>\n
She waited, same as always. Wrinkled dress, messy hair, hopeful eyes. I tried to distract her, but she insisted, \u201cMaybe he\u2019s just stuck in traffic.\u201d I nodded\u2014because how do you tell a child that her dad isn\u2019t coming home?<\/p>\n
Two months ago, we buried him. A drunk driver. Gone in seconds.<\/p>\n
She knows he\u2019s in heaven, but kids don\u2019t grieve in straight lines. They hope. They wait.<\/p>\n
As the sun set, she quietly asked, \u201cDo they have doors in heaven?\u201d I choked back tears and said, \u201cMaybe Daddy\u2019s waiting at his door too.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded, pressed her hand to the glass, and whispered, \u201cIt\u2019s okay if you\u2019re late, Daddy. I\u2019ll wait tomorrow too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now she\u2019s asleep in his old hoodie. And I\u2019m here, heartbroken, watching love stretch beyond loss.<\/p>\n
Because grief may linger\u2014but so does hope.<\/p>\n