The Last Call from My Father

The Last Call from My Father
By Tariq Shah

The last time my father called me, I didn’t answer.

I was sitting in a glass-walled meeting room on the 18th floor of a corporate tower. PowerPoint slides, spreadsheets, quarterly targets—those seemed important at the time. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at it. “Dad.”

I hit “silence” and told myself I’d call him back later.

He passed away that night.

They said it was peaceful. A heart attack in his sleep. He didn’t suffer. But no one told me what it does to a man—to see a missed call from his father sitting on his lock screen. Unanswered. Unopened. Unforgiven.

For days, I stared at that call log, replaying every memory, every word we hadn’t spoken. He had been trying to reach me. For what? A goodbye? A final “I’m proud of you”? Or maybe something more ordinary. Maybe he just wanted to ask about my day.

And I was too busy building a life to answer the one who gave me life.

The guilt came like waves. One moment I’d be drinking coffee, the next I’d be drowning in thoughts of him. He wasn't a perfect man. He had a temper. He worked too much when I was little. But he also fixed every flat tire I had, showed up to every graduation, and taught me to keep promises—even when they hurt.

After his funeral, I went back to my apartment, still dressed in black. His voice felt like it was still floating in the room, hiding in corners. My phone was silent now, almost in protest.

I finally opened his last voicemail. My hands were shaking.

> “Hey son, I know you’re probably in a meeting. Just wanted to say I was thinking about you today. That’s all. No reason, really. Just... proud of the man you’ve become. I miss you. Call me when you can, alright?”



That was it.

Twenty-two seconds.

I must’ve listened to that message a hundred times. Not because of what he said, but because of what he didn’t get to say. Because of what I’ll never get to say back.

For weeks, I couldn’t sleep. I walked the city at night, passing strangers and wondering how many of them had missed their last chance too.

One morning, I found myself outside his old house. The garden was still untrimmed, just like he used to leave it, saying “Nature should look like nature.” His old rocking chair still sat on the porch, quietly swaying in the wind.

I sat down in it and cried for the first time since his death.

Not a silent, controlled cry. A loud, messy one.

And something happened.

I forgave myself.

It didn’t come with fanfare or music. Just a quiet, internal voice whispering, “He knew.”

He knew I loved him. Even if I didn’t always say it. He knew I was busy, trying to make something of myself. And knowing him, he wouldn’t have wanted me to carry this guilt like a stone around my neck.

That day, I deleted the voicemail.

Not because I wanted to forget, but because I had finally heard it enough to remember it forever.

Since then, I answer every call from my mother. I text my sister back, even if it’s just an emoji. I’ve stopped waiting for “later.” Because later might not call back.

And now, when I leave voicemails, I say the things that matter.

“I love you.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Call me when you can, alright?”


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Author Note:
If you’ve lost someone with words left unsaid, know this—you’re not alone. Guilt is heavy, but love is stronger. Forgive yourself. Speak your heart today. Don’t wait for the “right time.” Sometimes, the right time is now.