OUR DAUGHTER WAITS BY THE DOOR FOR HER DAD EVERY DAY—AND TODAY SHE NEARLY BROKE ME

Our daughter’s ritual started simply: after snacks, she’d wipe her hands on her flowery dress and wait by the door, whispering updates for Daddy like, “I saved you the blue jellybean.” It was charming until it became daily, rain or shine. He’d return, scoop her up, call her “Lieutenant,” and she’d beam.

Two months ago, a drunk driver killed him. We buried him, and though she knows he’s in heaven, her grief loops. She waits by the door, clutching the mat, convinced he’s just late. I tried distracting her, but she says, “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.” Last night, she asked, “Do they have doors in heaven?” I said maybe he’s waiting too. She touched the glass, whispering, “I’ll wait tomorrow too.” Asleep in his hoodie, her hope endures. Grief ignores age, but so does love—she still believes, still waits.