When I was ten years old, I lost my dad suddenly. One moment he was there, larger than life, and the next he was gone—leaving a silence that followed me into adulthood. The last gift he ever gave me was a singing teddy bear. I clutched that bear for years, pressing its paw just to hear the tinny melody and pretending, for a moment, that nothing had changed.

As I grew older, the bear was eventually packed away with other childhood keepsakes. Life moved forward, as it always does. I got married. I became a parent. And somehow, twenty years slipped by.

When my son turned seven—the same age I was when my dad bought me that teddy bear—I felt an unexpected pull to pass it on. It seemed right, like a quiet circle closing. The bear had long stopped working, though, so my son and I sat together on the floor to replace the batteries.

That’s when everything stopped.

As I opened the battery compartment, I froze. Tucked neatly beside the battery box was something that didn’t belong there—a tiny cassette tape. My hands started to shake. I had owned this bear for two decades. I had hugged it, cried into it, moved houses with it. And yet, I had never known this was inside.

I found an old recorder and pressed play.

The moment I heard my dad’s voice, chills raced through my entire body. It was him—warm, familiar, and impossibly alive. He was reading my favorite bedtime stories, the ones I used to beg for night after night. He laughed as he shared silly memories from my childhood. Then his voice softened, and he began speaking directly to me—offering advice for my future, encouragement for hard days, and reminders to be kind to myself.

At the end of the recording, his voice cracked just slightly.

He said he knew he wouldn’t be there to meet my children. So he wanted them to know him anyway. He asked me, gently, to pass this cassette on so they could “meet” their granddad through his voice.

I sat there crying, my son watching me with wide, confused eyes, the teddy bear resting between us.

Now, that cassette is my most treasured possession. My son listens to it often, curled up with the same bear I once held, hearing stories read by a man he never met—but somehow knows. Even my mom was stunned when I told her. She had no idea the cassette existed. No one did.

My dad found a way to stay.
Not in photographs.
Not just in memories.

But in his voice—waiting quietly for twenty years, until the exact moment it was needed.