“I am still waiting. Where are you?”
Hands shaking, I called the number.
A young woman answered immediately, crying. “Dad? Dad, where are you? Please, I need help…”
I swallowed hard. “I’m not your father,” I said gently. “Who are you trying to reach?”
Through sobs, she explained that her car had broken down in the middle of nowhere. She had been desperately trying to reach her dad—but he had recently changed his number. When she tried calling the old one, the contact saved as “Dad”… was me. Because that number had once belonged to Helen.
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