The promotion was everything David had worked for. He had spent three years grinding as a junior associate, arriving first and leaving last, just to hear those words: “Senior Partner.”
He walked out of the office building, the cool evening air hitting his face. He felt lighter than he had in months. The adrenaline was still humming in his veins, a physical buzz of victory that demanded to be shared.
Without a conscious thought, his hand went to his pocket. It was 5:17 PM. The drive home. The “debrief” hour.
For twenty years, this was the ritual. His father, a retired engineer who could listen to David complain about office politics for hours without boredom, would answer on the second ring. “Tell me the good, the bad, and the ugly, kid,” he’d say.
David unlocked his phone, his thumb hovering over the “Favorites” list. His brain was already formulating the opening sentence: Pop, you won’t believe it. I finally got the corner office.
He tapped the name.
It wasn’t until the phone didn’t ring—because the number had been disconnected three months ago—that the illusion shattered.
He stared at the silent screen, his breath hitching in his throat. When you lose a parent it’s such a weird feeling. It wasn’t a constant, screaming pain. It was a surreal, disjointed reality where they were knowing that they are gone but feeling like they are still here, just like they have always been.
David slumped against the steering wheel. For that split second, his dad had been alive again. He had been sitting in his armchair in the den, waiting for the phone to ring.
Your mind tricks you into forgetting that they are really gone. It was a cruel magic trick. For a heartbeat, the world was normal. And then, the memory of the hospital, the funeral, and the silence rushed back in to fill the void.
He let the phone drop to the passenger seat. The urge didn’t go away just because the reality set in. You still want to call them. You still want to tell them about your day. He wanted to hear his dad’s gravelly laugh. He wanted to ask, “What do I do now? How do I handle a team?”
You still want to ask them their advice. You still need them.
That was the hardest part to admit. David was forty years old, a Senior Partner, a grown man. But in the quiet of his car, he felt like a child who had lost his anchor. He realized that the habit of talking to them everyday doesn’t just disappear. It was woven into the rhythm of his life, as automatic as breathing or blinking.
He looked out the window at the passing traffic. Life was moving on. People were driving home to call their parents, their spouses, their friends.
It’s so hard to get used to them not being just a phone call away.
David picked up the phone again. He didn’t try to call this time. Instead, he opened his voice memos. He found an old saved voicemail—just a 30-second clip of his dad wishing him a happy birthday two years ago.
He pressed play.
“Happy birthday, kiddo. Proud of you. Keep going.”
It wasn’t a conversation. He couldn’t tell him about the promotion. But as the familiar voice filled the car, the crushing silence receded just enough for David to start the engine and drive
