The one phone call i didn't answer.

I remember the phone vibrating in my pocket that night.

It was around 10:59 PM. I was lying in bed headphones on pretending to sleep while endlessly scrolling through old messages. One of them was from my mom sent just yesterday.

(Call your dad He misses you even if he won’t say it.)

I sighed at the time locked the phone and told myself (I’ll call him tomorrow.)

But I didn’t.

I hadn't spoken to my father in nearly three months. We had fought. not loudly, not dramatically, but in a quiet, cold way that hurt more. I told him he didn’t understand me. He said I didn’t respect him. And so, the silence began.

I told myself I needed space.

That night as I looked at his name on my screen (Dad Calling) I froze. I hesitated. A thousand thoughts passed through my mind.

He’ll probably ask me to come home.

Maybe he’ll yell.

Maybe he’ll act like nothing happened and I’m not ready for that.

I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. No voicemail. No second call.

I turned off my phone.

That was the call I didn’t make.

The next morning my mother voice was shaking when she spoke.

(Your dad… he passed away last night. Heart attack. He tried calling you.)

I couldn’t breathe.

My world blurred. I replayed the night over and over. The phone screen lighting up. My thumb hovering over the answer button. The silence I chose.

He tried calling me. His last call. And I missed it — no, I ignored it.

At the funeral, I stood near his casket, numb and hollow. People told me, (He loved you.)

They didn’t know.

They didn’t know about the silence. The missed birthdays. The stubborn pride between us. They didn’t know that he reached out, and I didn’t answer.

Grief is strange. It’s not just tears. It’s guilt. It’s a thousand what-ifs and should-haves. It’s hearing your dad’s voice in your head saying (You’ll understand when you’re older.) And realizing he was right.

I began checking my phone constantly not for new messages, but for old ones. I listened to a six-second voicemail he once left that said, (Just checking in. Call me when you're free.)

I must’ve played it a hundred times.

That one phone call the one I didn’t make became the heaviest thing I ever carried. Not because of what was said, but because of what wasn’t.

In time, I tried to forgive myself. I started writing letters to him. Not to send, just to say what I couldn’t before.

(Dad, I was angry, but I still loved you.)

(Dad, I wish I told you thank you more often.)

(Dad, I miss you — even when I pretended I didn’t.)

I talk to him sometimes when I’m alone. Some people would call it strange. I call it healing.

Now, whenever I feel distant from someone I love, I think of that night. I think of the phone lighting up. I think of silence.

And I call.

Because sometimes, one phone call can change everything.

And sometimes, the one you don’t make becomes the one you never forget.

moral of the story ;:;

Never let pride or hesitation silence your heart. Life is fragile, and opportunities to reconnect may not come twice. A simple phone call, an apology, or a kind word can heal wounds before it's too late. We often think we have time — until we don’t. Regret is a heavy burden, especially when it’s tied to words left unsaid and love left unshown. Don’t wait for the perfect moment; create it. If someone matters to you, reach out today. Because the calls we ignore in ego may echo forever in grief.