I drove up to my daughter’s home unannounced and saw something Id rather never have guessed.
Sometimes happiness looks simple: the kids are healthy, their families are solid, the grandchildren are laughing. I always thought I was luckymy late wife, our daughter Emma, her little ones. We managed on a modest income, but the house was full of warmth and agreement. It seemed we could not ask for more.
Emma married at twentytwo, her husband was thirtyfive. My wife and I gave our blessing: James Whitakera respectable man with a flat in central Birmingham, a wellpaid engineer. Not a boytoy, but a man with his feet on the ground. He paid for the wedding himself, sent Emma off to Brighton for a honeymoon, and gave her a pair of gold hoop earrings. The relatives gushed, Emma has hit the jackpotshes married into silk right away.
The first few years went smoothly. Baby Jack arrived, then Lily, and they moved into a cottage on the outskirts of London, visiting us on holidays. But over time I noticed Emma losing her spark. Her answers became brief, her smiles forced, and there was a hollow look in her eyes. A mothers heart cant be fooledsomething was wrong.
One day, fed up, I decided to go to her. I callednothing. I textedread, no reply. I thought Id just drive over, missing the little ones terribly, I told myself.
Emma greeted me not with joy but with alarm. She turned away, hurried to make tea. I helped the kids with their homework, cooked a roast, and stayed the night. Around midnight James came back. On his jacket was a fleck of reddish hair, and he wore a trace of expensive cologne. He kissed Emmas cheek, and she slipped silently into the bedroom.
Later, while I was sipping water in the kitchen, I heard his whisper from the balcony: Soon, love she has no idea. The glass in my hand trembled, my throat tightened.
In the morning I asked directly, Are you aware of this? Emma went pale and whispered, Mum, donteverythings fine. But I laid out the facts: the hair, the cologne, the latenight calls. She answered as if rehearsed, Youre imagining things. Hes a good father. He provides for us. Love isnt the point.
I hid my tears in the bathroom and realised I wasnt losing a soninlaw, but a daughter. She chose convenience over respect, and he was cynically exploiting it.
That evening I called James into the living room. He didnt even try to apologise.
So what? Im not abandoning them. We have the flat, the kids school, the coatseverythings taken care of. Shes comfortable. Stay out of it.
And if I tell everyone?
She knows. Shes just pretending.
On the train back home I swallowed my sobs. My husband kept urging me, Dont push, youll lose her completely. But how could I stay silent while watching my daughter dim?
I pray that someday she looks into a mirror and sees that dignity is worth more than any diamond. That loyalty isnt a heroic feat but a basic standard. Then maybe shell pack her bags, take the children by the hand, and walk away.
As for me Ill keep waiting. Even if she now builds a wall around herself. A father doesnt give up. Even when the pain tears the soul apart. Because those arent just wordsits forever.
