Whiteout: The Night Everything Changed

The howling wind battered against the window with such force I half-expected the glass to shatter. I was staring at my phone, knuckles white, as Mom’s voice quivered through the speaker: “Annie, it’s your dad. He… he’s not waking up. I called 911, but no one’s answering. The line’s just… dead.”

I shot up from the couch, adrenaline surging, and ran to the front door. The storm outside was a white monster, swallowing everything in sight. The doorknob was icy under my fingers, and when I tried to push—the door didn’t budge. I threw my shoulder against it, but it might as well have been bricked over. Snow piled up feet high, sealing the whole building shut. Even if I could get out, the news was warning everyone: “Do not drive. Roads are impassable. Emergency services suspended.”

“Annie? Are you there?” Mom’s voice pulled me back.

“I’m here, Mom. Hold on. Just—hold on. I’m going to try and get help.”

But what could I do? Every neighbor’s door was shut and, I imagined, just as snowed in as mine. I pounded on the walls, hoping someone would answer, but the wind outside drowned out even my own heartbeat. My hands shook as I dialed 911 again, again, again, but each time I was met with a busy signal or a recorded message: “Due to extreme weather, emergency lines are overloaded.”

The clock on the microwave blinked 2:14 AM. My breath fogged in the cold air; the power had gone out hours ago. I wrapped myself in a blanket, clutching my phone like a lifeline. I called my brother, Ethan, but his line went straight to voicemail. He lived across town, but tonight, that may as well have been a different planet.

I texted him anyway: “Dad’s had a stroke. We’re trapped. Please, call if you get this.”

Minutes dragged by, stretching into hours. Mom called again, her voice brittle. “He’s breathing, but it’s shallow. I don’t know what to do, Annie. I don’t know—”

A sob choked her words. I swallowed my own fear, trying to sound calm. “Stay with him, Mom. Talk to him. Remember when he used to tell us about the old baseball games? Maybe he can hear you.”

She tried. I could hear her in the background, telling Dad about the time we all went to the Indians game and he spilled nachos on his shirt. She laughed, but it sounded like a scream.

I paced the living room, remembering the last time I saw Dad—Thanksgiving, two months ago. We’d argued. He’d made a crack about my job—”Still wasting your time at that art gallery, huh?”—and I’d snapped back about him never understanding me. The whole meal was ruined. I’d left early, slamming the door behind me. I never apologized.

Now, as the snow buried the world outside, guilt settled on my chest heavier than any drift. Why hadn’t I just let it go? Why hadn’t I called him more? I would have given anything for one more stupid argument, if only to hear his voice.

A sudden pounding rattled my door. I ran, hope flaring, but it was only the storm shaking the frame. My phone buzzed—a text from Ethan: “I’m stuck too. Power’s out. Can’t get to you.”

I typed back, “Stay safe. Mom needs us if she calls.”

The night felt endless. I kept calling Mom, listening as her voice faded. At one point, she set the phone down; I could hear her sobbing, the low hum of Dad’s breathing in the background. I wanted to scream, to smash through the snow, to make the world pay for trapping us like this.

At 5:07 AM, Mom’s voice was small. “Annie… he’s gone. I think… I think he’s gone.”

I pressed the phone to my chest, curling up on the floor. Tears blurred my vision. I whispered, “I love you, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The storm raged on. It was another twelve hours before plows reached our street. When I finally forced the door open and stumbled into the blinding light, everything was different. The world was so still, so painfully quiet. Neighbors wandered, dazed, checking on each other. I ran, slipping and stumbling through hip-deep snow, to Mom’s house. She was sitting by the window, clutching Dad’s old baseball cap.

We hugged, sobbing. There was nothing left to say.

That blizzard took more than just a night from us. It stole my chance to say goodbye, to make peace, to fix the things I’d let fester. I know I’m not alone—so many of us carry regrets, words left unsaid, apologies buried until it’s too late.

Now, when I see the snow start to fall, I wonder: Why do we wait to say what matters? What would you do if you knew today could be your last chance to make things right?