Every Woman My Father Dated Disappeared the Next Morning — Then My Best Friend Received a Chilling Message
People and Society
I lost my mother twelve years ago.
I was old enough to know what death meant, but too young to understand what it could do to the person left behind.
After the funeral, my father seemed like a completely different man.
When Mom was alive, he could bring life even to the grayest days. He sang while making coffee, told stupid jokes over dinner, and there was always music playing somewhere in the house.
Then Mom died.
And the music stopped too.
For years, he wanted nothing to do with the idea of meeting someone new. Our relatives tried to set him up with different women, while his friends invited him to dinners where there always happened to be a single woman sitting beside him.
My father turned down every opportunity.
Once, I told him:
— Mom would never want you to spend the rest of your life alone.
He looked at me.
— I’m not alone, Lola. I have you.
His answer hurt more than I let him see.
Then, from one day to the next, something changed.
My father signed up for a dating site.
When I visited him, he was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his phone and smiling.
I hadn’t seen that smile in years.
— What are you looking at?
He quickly locked the screen.
— Nothing.
Eventually, he admitted:
— I made a profile.
I hugged him.
— I think Mom would be happy for you.
— I hope so, — he whispered.
Not long afterward, he began going on dates with beautiful women.
One worked at a library, another owned a bakery, and a third volunteered at an animal shelter on weekends.
After every date, my father looked like he was alive again.
Then none of them stayed.
At first, I thought they simply weren’t a good match. Relationships are complicated. Two people can have a wonderful evening together and still realize the next day that they have no future together.
Then I noticed something.
Every story ended exactly the same way.
The date went wonderfully. My father arranged another meeting. The woman smiled, was kind, and seemed interested.
But the next morning, she disappeared.
She didn’t call.
She didn’t write.
She didn’t explain.
Nothing.
The first time, my father thought the woman was simply busy.
The second time, he suspected he had misunderstood her interest.
After the third, he started blaming himself.
— Maybe I talk about your mother too much, — he said.
— You barely mention her.
— Maybe I’m too old-fashioned.
— You just held the door open for her. That’s hardly a crime.
But I couldn’t convince him.
Every new disappearance chipped away at his confidence. He stopped singing again, constantly checked his phone, and reread old messages as if he might find the answer hidden among them.
After the sixth woman, I knew:
Something was very wrong.
Six women could lose interest.
But six women couldn’t disappear on the same night after promising to see him again.
So I called my best friend, Rachel.
— Go on a date with him once.
She laughed.
— You’re not serious, are you?
— I am. I need to know what’s happening.
Rachel finally agreed.
The date lasted three hours.
She called me that evening.
— Your father is wonderful. I can’t believe nobody gave him a chance.
— Nothing strange?
— Nothing. He was kind, funny, and respectful. He asked if I’d have dinner with him next Friday.
— And?
— I said yes.
That night, I slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.
But the next morning, Rachel didn’t answer either.
I called her before work.
Nothing.
I tried again at noon.
Voicemail.
I sent messages.
Nothing.
By evening, I finally received a message:
“Don’t contact me again. Please.”
I knew immediately that Rachel hadn’t written it.
I went to her apartment. Her car was there, the lights were on, but nobody opened the door.
The next morning, she finally called me.
Her voice was trembling.
—I can’t tell you over the phone.
When we met, she was pale. She handed me her phone.
There was a message from an unknown number:
“Stay away from him. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”
Below it was a photograph.
Rachel leaving a restaurant with my father.
The picture had been taken from across the street.
More messages followed. The sender knew Rachel’s address, where she worked, and even her brother Graham’s name.
But the last message made my blood run cold:
“If you contact him or Lola again, Graham will find out what happened in Philadelphia.”
— What happened in Philadelphia? — I asked.
Rachel lowered her eyes.
— Three years ago, Graham was struggling with addiction. He disappeared for two days. I found him in a motel and brought him home. Nobody outside the family knew about it.
— Then how could a stranger know that?
Rachel shook her head.
— I don’t know.
A chill ran down my spine.
Someone was watching us.
— Do you think my father is behind this?
— I think it’s someone close to him.
I went straight to my father.
When I showed him the messages, he went pale.
— We need to call the police, — he said.
— Someone knows personal things about Rachel. They even knew when I called her.
My father didn’t answer.
Then I remembered that he had security cameras installed around the house.
We opened the footage.
At 10:17 p.m., my father arrived home.
Alone.
A few minutes later, however, a hooded figure appeared in the driveway.
They turned their face away from the camera.
I replayed the footage.
This time, I watched their shoes.
White sneakers with a dark stripe along the side.
I’d seen them before.
More than once.
I went home and pulled an old box from the back of the closet.
Photographs.
Mom’s documents.
In one photograph, Mom was standing beside her sister, Sabrina.
Sabrina was wearing the same white sneakers.
After Mom’s death, Sabrina had helped my father a lot. She cooked, handled paperwork, and stayed with him whenever he needed someone.
Then, little by little, she disappeared from our lives.
I called Rachel.
— Did you ever tell Sabrina about Graham?
Silence.
— Yes. She once saw me crying, and I told her everything.
Suddenly, everything fell into place.
I drove to Sabrina’s house.
When she opened the door, she was wearing workout clothes.
The white sneakers were standing by the entrance.
I showed her the security footage.
All the color drained from her face.
— You followed Rachel.
— Lola, you don’t understand.
— Then explain it to me.
Sabrina’s voice trembled.
— Your father was supposed to love your mother forever.
— He did love her.
— No. He replaced her.
— He lived alone for twelve years.
— And does that make it okay for him to date?
Then she confessed everything.
Through my father’s dating profile, she found the women. She researched them online, followed them after their dates, and sent threatening messages from disposable phone numbers.
Most of the women became frightened, blocked my father, and disappeared.
But she already knew Rachel.
— Why did you involve Graham? — I asked.
— She wouldn’t have listened to me otherwise.
I looked at the woman who had held my hand at Mom’s funeral.
— You weren’t protecting Mom’s memory.
Sabrina’s eyes filled with tears.
— You were using it, — I said.
Rachel reported the threats to the police. My father handed over the security footage. Sabrina eventually admitted what she had done and began getting help.
My father blamed himself for months.
— Maybe I never should have started dating again, — he said.
I sat beside him at the kitchen table.
— But you should have.
— Why?
I smiled at him.
— Because there was nothing wrong with wanting to keep living. The problem was that someone was trying to stop you.
Months later, my father tried dating again.
The woman’s name was Jocelyn.
And she didn’t disappear the next morning.
After their third date, my father called me.
Soft music was playing in the background.
Then I heard him laugh.
Jocelyn had laughed at something.
I smiled too.
I thought everything had finally fallen into place.
Then my father suddenly went quiet.
— Lola… — he said softly. — There’s something I need to tell you.
— What is it?
There was a long silence.
— Jocelyn has already met your mother.
The air seemed to freeze inside me.
— That’s impossible.
— I know.
— Then who is she?
My father didn’t answer.
He only said:
— I’ll show you the photographs tomorrow.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
At three in the morning, a message arrived from Jocelyn.
It contained just one sentence:
“Lola, I don’t think your father has told you yet what really happened to your mother.”
My hands began to tremble.
For twelve years, I had believed that Mom’s death was the day that tore our family apart.
For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t the end of the story.
Maybe it was the beginning.
