Please Tell Tatty I Tried to Call
| September 25, 2025“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “From a father to a stranger”
IT
was the kind of upstate summer day that’s equal parts sticky and slow-moving, when even errands feel like an outing. I was in a bakery — the kind that stocks everything from artisan sourdough to oversized rainbow cookies — and though the line wasn’t particularly long, the place felt full-to-bursting with a crowd of camp girls who had arrived en masse.
They were everywhere — a sea of burgundy polos, crisp white sneakers, and belt bags around their waists like a uniform of cheerful independence. Matching hair bows bobbed as they bounced between the cookie counter and the fridges, laughing, pointing, deciding. It was a sea of youthful chatter and coordinated cotton.
One girl — a bit younger, with a hopeful look — came up to me and asked if she could use my phone to call her parents. I handed it to her.
She tried her father first. No answer.
She then got through to her mother and chatted briefly, giving her happy updates about camp. I couldn’t help overhearing her say, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Please tell Tatty I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.” The words were light, said in passing, but something about the way she said them tugged at me.
She thanked me with a grateful smile and skipped back to her bunkmates, blending back into the sea of maroon.
I moved on to a grocery store next door. A few minutes later, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hi,” said a man on the other end, his voice filled with urgency and warmth all at once. “I missed a call from this number. If you’re still in the area, is there any chance I could speak to my daughter?”
And just like that, I was back in the crowd with my phone in hand, trying to spot her in a sea of burgundy polos. I asked around, described her. “Younger division,” I was told. “They’re eating lunch by the lake.”
I moved to the lake and arrived at a shaded clearing by the water where picnic tables were full of noisy, happy girls balancing bakery treats and iced coffees. I began asking for the girl, and from somewhere in the crowd, came a little voice. “That’s me.”
I smiled. “Your father’s on the phone,” I said and handed it to her. Her face lit up with the kind of joy that isn’t self-conscious — the kind of joy that forgets the matching bows and belt bags and background noise. It was just her and her father.
She spoke quickly, animatedly, as if trying to squeeze all her camp experiences into one phone call. A friend nudged her gently, reminding her that I was waiting, and she handed back the phone with a smile that stayed behind even after I left.
Back in the grocery store, my phone rang again.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “From a father to a stranger — thank you for taking the time to help me speak to my daughter. It meant so much.”
I stood there holding my phone, grocery bags in the crook of my arm, the words, “Please tell Tatty I tried to call,” echoing again.
Because isn’t that all of us? Aren’t we all just trying to reach our Father?
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 962)
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