“Dad, I just wanted you to be proud of me”: The story of a girl who grew up too soon
When Emily was just six, her world split in two. One ordinary evening, her father packed his bags and walked out of their flat. Not to work. Not to the shops. But for good. At the time, she didn’t understand the grown-up word “divorce.” All she knew was that from that moment on, he never came back. Never hugged her. Never kissed the top of her head before bed. Never said, “I’m here.”
On the surface, it was a story like so many others. Ordinary. Modern. But for one little girl, it felt like the end of the world—because she blamed herself. She ate food. She needed clothes. Soon she’d start school, and that meant expenses. Her mum had lost her job, and poor Dad just couldn’t take it anymore… he was tired of carrying them both.
“Mum, if I eat less, will Dad come back? I can just eat at school…” she whispered hopefully, her blue eyes fixed on her mother’s face.
Her mother pulled her close and wept. She cried for a long time, and Emily—ate less and less. Still, her father never returned.
First day of school. Emily was starting Year One. A crisp white blouse, a neat black skirt, a little blazer, and two enormous bows, just like the dolls in shop windows. She stood in front of the mirror and thought, “If Dad saw me now, he’d come back. Who could ever leave a daughter this lovely?”
Her mother held her hand tightly; in the other, she carried a bouquet for the teacher. Emily felt both nervous and excited, but all of it was overshadowed by one desperate hope: Dad would come. He had to. Today, of all days, he couldn’t stay away.
“Emily, why do you keep looking around? Don’t worry, I’m right here,” her mother said gently.
But Emily wasn’t scared. She was searching. Searching the crowd for her father. Looking with her eyes, her heart, her breath—because she believed he was there. Maybe she just couldn’t see him. Maybe he couldn’t see her. But she was in the front row—he *had* to notice!
When the assembly ended and the first-years were led inside, Emily fought back tears. She’d tried so hard—for nothing. Or had she? What if he *had* seen her? What if he just didn’t approach?
“Is Dad waiting at home?” she asked her mother on the way back.
“I don’t know, love,” her mother replied with a heavy voice.
Emily sprinted ahead, certain he’d be there. She threw open the door—and saw an empty flat. Only then did she really cry.
Her mother stroked her hair, making excuses—maybe work hadn’t let him go. But deep down, she already knew: he wasn’t coming. He hadn’t come even when *she* went to him, begging:
“David, I’m not asking for anything else. But Emily’s waiting. She believes in you. Just come *once*. Talk to her.”
“Come?” He scoffed. “That means presents, flowers… I’ve got no money. Don’t lie to the kid.”
“Rot in hell with your bloody money,” Emily’s mother muttered, slamming the door behind her.
Emily grew up. Quiet. Obedient. Hardworking. No tantrums, no complaints, no unnecessary questions. Just endless effort—exhausting effort—to be *good*. She got top marks. Not for ambition, but because somewhere deep inside, she hoped: “When he hears how well I’m doing, he’ll come. He’ll smile. Ruffle my hair. Say he’s proud.”
But he never came.
“Mum, can we invite him to my birthday? I don’t want gifts. Just… just let him come…”
Her mother stayed silent. Emily shut herself in her room and wept. Because she already knew.
She finished school with top honours. Prom night—a celebration meant to make her whole family proud. Her dress was ready, her grandparents had come from the countryside. But two hours before the event, she sat on a bench outside her father’s building. She wanted to invite him. To show him who she’d become. To hear him say, just once, “I’m sorry, love. I’m proud of you.”
He walked out. A bag slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd. Past her. He didn’t even recognise her.
“Dad!” she shouted. “It’s *me*! Emily!”
He turned. A pause.
“You’ve grown,” he said coldly.
“I’ve finished school. Top of my year. I’m off to university in London…”
“I’ve no money. Don’t expect anything.”
“I’m not asking for money—I wanted to invite you to prom!”
“And do *what* there?”
She stopped listening. Ran. Tears choking her. Right there, alone on the street corner, Emily realised: her childhood was over.
She graduated. Returned to her hometown—her mother was seriously ill. Found a job, met James. A kind, honest man. Married him. Had a daughter. Then another. The word “Dad” was scraped from her heart. She never spoke of him again.
Today, she’s thirty. A milestone. Saturday. The flat buzzes with laughter. Her mother plays with the grandchildren; James is out collecting his parents. Emily’s in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner.
The doorbell rings. She rushes to answer—assuming it’s the in-laws. But… it’s *him*. Her father. Older now, grey at his temples.
“Thought I’d drop by. You didn’t invite me to the wedding. Too tight to pay for your old man’s plate, eh? I’m getting on now. You ought to help—”
“You’re too late, Dad. I waited for you every single day. Prayed you’d show up. You weren’t there for my first day of school. Not for prom. You weren’t there. Now? I don’t need you. And don’t you *dare* guilt me. I didn’t invite you. Go.”
“Not even letting me in?”
“No. Not even.”
She slammed the door.
He stood there a long while. Reached for the bell—hesitated. Just then, the lift dinged open, spilling out elderly relatives and a younger man laden with boxes, bouquets, gifts.
“Are you here for us?” the man asked.
“No… wrong floor…”
He shuffled down the stairs. Slowly. From above, laughter rang out:
“Happy birthday, love!”
The words struck like knives. Too late. All of it—gone. All of it—missed.
