I tried to call my grandparents but couldn’t remember if the last digit was 7 or 8. Heart pounding a little—I hadn’t spoken to them in weeks—I dialed what I hoped was right. A man answered, his voice warm but unfamiliar.
“Is this [my name]?” he asked casually.
Uneasy, I gripped the phone tighter. “Who’s calling?”
He just laughed, a deep, familiar chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine. “You know who this is.”
My mind raced. It couldn’t be. “Grandpa?”
Another laugh, softer this time. “Took you long enough, kiddo. You picked 8. Spot on.”
I exhaled, half-laughing, half-relieved. “You scared me! I thought I’d reached a stranger!”
“Nah,” he said. “Just an old man waiting for his favorite granddaughter to call. Your grandma’s napping, but she’ll be thrilled you rang. How’ve you been?”
We talked for an hour—about school, my new job, the silly things he still did around the house. He teased me about my bad memory for numbers, and I teased him back about still answering the landline like it was 1995.
By the end, the unease had melted into warmth. That “wrong” dial wasn’t wrong at all. It was exactly what I needed: a reminder that some connections don’t depend on perfect digits—they just need a voice on the other end saying your name like it matters.
I hung up smiling, promising to call again soon. And next time, I’d double-check the number… or maybe not. Sometimes the mistake is the best part.
