I Buried Her Father 18 Years Ago — So Who Was She Talking to on the Phone?
My husband, Charles, died in a car crash when our daughter Susie was two weeks old—or so I believed. His mother handled everything: a closed casket, a rushed cremation. I never saw his body. I trusted her. I mourned. I raised Susie alone.
Then, 18 years later, I heard Susie whisper into the landline, “I miss you, Dad.” I froze. Dad? She claimed it was a wrong number, but I checked the call log and called back. A man answered, gentle and familiar: “Susie… I was starting to think you wouldn’t call tonight.” It was Charles.
He had faked his death with Diane’s help, too afraid to be a father. Susie found him online months ago and had been…
