The Last Voicemail

The sky over Maple Ridge was a dull, misty gray, as if even the clouds mourned. Emily Carter had never planned to return to this place—let alone to clean out the home of a father she hadn’t spoken to in fifteen years.

She parked her car outside the weathered log cabin tucked beneath tall pine trees. It hadn’t changed much. The same rust-colored door. The same porch she once waited on every weekend, hoping he’d come back after he walked out of their lives when she was twelve.

But he never did. And now, he never would.

Her aunt Marlene had called two days ago. “Your father passed away. Heart attack. It was quick.” There wasn’t a tremble in her voice, just a heaviness that made Emily’s chest ache more than she expected.

Inside, the cabin smelled of old books, pinewood, and dust. Her footsteps echoed in the silence as she walked around, brushing her fingers along half-finished sketches taped to the wall, music notes scribbled in journals, and a dozen empty teacups. He had been a man of unfinished things, it seemed.

On the small coffee table lay a flip phone. Ancient and still blinking red.

Curiosity, or maybe something else she didn’t want to name, pushed her to open it.

1 new voicemail.

The date read: October 15th, 7:13 AM.

He died around 8:00.

Her thumb hovered over Play. Then she pressed it.

“Hey Em… I know I probably shouldn’t be calling. You won’t recognize this number, but I hoped you might still have it saved. Or maybe Aunt Marlene will find a way. I—I don’t have much time. Not in the dramatic way, just… something feels final today.

I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped being your father. I know I left, and I never explained why. I just wanted to tell you... I'm sorry. For everything. For every birthday I missed, every silence I gave you. I’ve been writing letters… I couldn’t send them. I was scared. But they’re here. In the drawer. If you’re listening… thank you.”

The message ended.

Emily stood frozen, the phone warm in her hand. Her throat tightened, but no tears came. Just the hum of disbelief. A message recorded on the day he died. And letters?

She rushed to the desk. The top drawer opened easily, revealing a stack of envelopes, neatly arranged. Each labeled by year: 2009, 2010, 2011… all the way to 2024. Over a decade of unsent letters.

She picked one at random—2014.

“Today would’ve been your high school graduation, I think. God, I hope you wore something red. You always looked fierce in red. I didn’t come. I parked two blocks away. I saw you hug your mom. You looked happy, and I didn’t want to ruin that.

I wasn’t drunk. That’s progress, right?”

Emily’s knees buckled, and she sank into the creaky leather chair. One by one, she opened the letters. He had written about getting sober. About joining a painting class. About the dog he adopted—Max, who apparently hated squirrels and slept under the kitchen table.

He told her about his regrets. About the depression that clung to him like a shadow. About how he believed leaving was the only way to protect her from the version of himself he couldn’t control.

“You deserved a better father. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

That one broke her.

She cried for the twelve-year-old who waited on the porch. For the birthdays spent pretending she didn’t care. For the moments she wished he were dead just so the waiting could stop.

Now it had.

The next morning, before she left the cabin, she took one final look around. The voicemail played again in her head, echoing like a whisper that finally found its voice.

Back in the city, Emily did something she hadn’t done in years. She painted. Not digital sketches. Not logos. But real brush-to-canvas emotion. She created a series titled “Unheard Goodbyes”, with one of her father’s old drawings stitched into the center.

At the gallery exhibit, under one of the largest canvases, she placed a small placard:

“For those whose voices arrived too late—but still found their way home.”

That night, she called her aunt.

“He said goodbye,” she whispered. “And I think… I’m ready to say mine too.”