What began as a simple routine slowly became her world.
After her snack, she’d wipe her hands on that same flower-printed dress and wander over to the front door like it was part of her daily ritual. No cartoons. No toys. Just the door.
Sometimes she’d sit on the welcome mat with her legs folded.
Sometimes she’d stand with her nose to the glass, softly whispering little updates like,
“Daddy, it rained today,”
or
“I saved the blue jellybean for you.”
We used to smile at how sweet it was.
But then it became her routine—rain or sun, weekday or weekend, she’d be there.
Waiting.
And he never disappointed.
The second that door swung open, her whole face would light up like it was Christmas.
He’d scoop her up, kiss her forehead, and say:
“Thanks for guarding the house, Lieutenant.”
But today…
The door stayed closed.
She sat there like always—dress rumpled, hair a mess, fingers curled around the edge of the mat like it was the only solid thing in the world.
I gently tried to distract her.
“Sweetheart, want to read? Or color? Maybe go outside?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet. Maybe he’s late. Could be traffic.”
She said it with such certainty—like she understood adult things now.
I nodded.
Because the truth was too heavy to say out loud.
Two months ago, we buried him.
A drunk driver.
Wrong lane.
Three seconds.
Gone.
She knows he’s in heaven. We talk about it.
But no one tells you that kids grieve in loops.
They rewind.
Pretend.
Hold on.
Wait.
She stayed there until the last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the trees.
Then she stood, walked over to me, and softly asked:
“Are there doors in heaven?”
My throat tightened.
“Maybe there are, sweetheart. Maybe Daddy’s waiting by one too.”
She nodded slowly, as if that made sense in her world.
Then she did something that shattered me—
She returned to the door, placed her little hand on the glass, and whispered:
“It’s okay if you’re late, Daddy. I’ll be here tomorrow too.”
Now she’s fast asleep, wrapped in his old hoodie.
And I’m sitting in silence with a cold cup of tea and a heart in pieces.
Grief doesn’t care how small you are.
But neither does love.
Because even in her sadness, our daughter still believes.
Still hopes.
Still waits.