My dad passed away almost a year ago.
He was the kind of dad who worried about everything. Whenever he came over to my apartment, he'd check the door locks, the stove, and the smoke alarm in the hallway.
I used to get so annoyed with him.
I'd tell him I was an adult and could take care of myself.
He'd just laugh and say, "Let me check one thing, and I'll get out of your hair."
Last winter, I was home alone one night, lying in bed scrolling through my phone.
It was almost midnight when the smoke alarm in the hallway suddenly went off.
I jumped out of bed and checked the kitchen. Nothing was cooking, and I couldn't see any smoke.
I figured it was a false alarm, so I hit the hush button.
About fifteen minutes later, it went off again.
This time, as soon as I stepped out of my bedroom, I smelled something familiar.
Cigarette smoke.
Not that burnt-plastic smell you get when something electrical goes wrong. It smelled like the cigarettes my dad used to smoke.
He'd quit years ago, but when I was little, his jacket always smelled like that when he came home from work.
I just stood there for a second.
I missed him so much.
Then the alarm went off a third time.
That snapped me out of it. I grabbed my phone, got out of the apartment, and knocked on my neighbor's door.
She could smell something burning too, but she said it smelled more like melted plastic.
We went downstairs and called 911.
The firefighters found an electrical connection under my kitchen sink that had seriously overheated. Some of the insulation had started melting.
Later, the electrician told me it could have turned into a fire if nobody had caught it.
I stayed at a friend's place that night.
While I was lying there trying to fall asleep, I remembered something from when I first moved in.
My dad had helped me unpack, and before he left, he'd stuck a little note on my fridge.
It said:
"Lock the door before bed. Check the stove. Call Dad if you need anything."
I'd never taken it down.
The next day, when I finally got back to my apartment, I stood in front of the fridge reading that note for a long time.
I used to think he worried way too much.
Now I'd give anything to have him come over and fuss about the locks again.
Even just for five minutes.
I keep thinking about that cigarette smell.
Maybe it was just the overheating wires, and my brain connected it to an old memory.
Maybe I just missed him that much.
I really don't know.
But when I was little, sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and smell cigarette smoke from the hallway.
That always meant Dad was home.
And for a second that night, it felt like he was home again.
Only this time, he couldn't tell me he'd finished checking everything and was heading out.
