When my daughter Emma died in 2009, I thought the worst pain was over.

I was wrong. She was only 10, hit by a drunk driver while riding her bike in front of our house.

I don't need to describe the hell that followed.

I mean, if you lost a child, you already know it.

If you haven't, then thank whatever God you believe in.

The first voicemail came on what would have been her 24th birthday.

It was 3.16 a.m., and my phone buzzed. I was already awake.

Insomnia has been on my shadow since we buried her.

I recognized the number instantly.

It was hers.

We'd kept her phone plan going for a while after her death, just to hear her voice on the voicemail.

Eventually we canceled it.

Or I thought we did.

The message was only a few seconds long.

That. And then static. I sat up in my bed. Not a glitchy AI sound, not some kind of kid playing a prank.

That was Emma, soft and confused, just like she used to sound when she woke up from a nightmare.

I didn't sleep the rest of that night.

I didn't tell anyone.

The next night it happened again.

Dad, are you still mad at me?

Static.

Then silence.

...