The Missed Call

Jasmine stared at the phone screen. One missed call from Dad.

1:37 p.m.

She was in a meeting when it came in—one of those endless Monday check-ins that feel more like punishment than productivity. She meant to call back.

But she didn’t.

She was still mad about the weekend. Her dad had made a “harmless” joke about her job—again. Called it “playing with pictures” even though she was a senior graphic designer. It embarrassed her in front of her cousins.

She rolled her eyes at the thought of him and shoved the phone into her bag.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” she told herself.

Tomorrow never came.

That night, Jasmine’s mom called. Her voice was trembling. “It was a heart attack. He... he didn’t make it.”

Jasmine’s world collapsed. Her knees buckled. The silence between them—her anger, his apology tucked in a missed call—echoed louder than anything.

At the funeral, she scrolled back and listened to the voicemail.

It was only eight seconds long.

“Hey, sweetheart. Just wanted to say I’m proud of you. Sorry if I was too much earlier. I love you.”

Her breath caught.

Tears fell.

That was his goodbye.

She kept the voicemail. Still plays it sometimes when she feels alone.

And every time her phone rings now—she answers. No matter what.

Lesson?

Don’t let pride steal your moments.

Don’t wait for the perfect time to forgive.

Because sometimes, the last words you'll hear are the ones you almost missed.