“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 the flat—not to work, not to the shops, but forever. At the time, she didn’t understand the crushing weight of the grown-up word “divorce.” She only knew that from that moment, he never came back. Never hugged her. Never kissed the top of her head before bed. Never whispered, “I’m here.”
It was a story like so many others. Common. Modern. But to one little girl, it was the end of everything—because she had decided it was her fault. She ate. She needed clothes. Soon, school—more expenses. And when Mum lost her job, poor Dad just couldn’t take it anymore… couldn’t carry them both.
“Mum, if I eat less, will Dad come back? I can just have meals at school…” she whispered, her blue eyes searching her mother’s face.
Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace and wept. She wept for a long time. And Emily? She ate less and less. But still, Dad never returned.
September arrived. Emily’s first day of school. White blouse, pleated skirt, blazer, and two enormous bows like the dolls in the shop windows. She stared at herself in the mirror and thought, *If Dad saw me now, he’d come back. Who could walk away from a daughter this perfect?*
Her mother held her hand; in the other, a bouquet for the teacher. Excitement twisted with fear in Emily’s chest—but above it all, a desperate hope: *He’ll come. He has to. Today of all days.*
“Emily, love, why do you keep looking around? Don’t worry, I’m right here,” her mother murmured.
But she wasn’t afraid. She was searching. Scanning the crowd for him with her eyes, her heart, her breath. *He must be here. Maybe he just hasn’t spotted me yet.* She stood in the front row—he *had* to see her.
When the assembly ended and the first-years were led inside, Emily bit her lip hard to keep from crying. She’d tried so hard—for nothing. Or had she? What if he *had* seen her? What if he just hadn’t said hello?
“Is Dad waiting at home?” she asked on the walk back.
Her mother’s voice was heavy. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
But Emily sprinted ahead, certain. She threw open the door—and the flat was empty. That was when the tears finally broke free.
Mum smoothed her hair and offered weak excuses—work must have kept him. But she knew the truth. He wasn’t coming. Not even when she pleaded with him herself:
“William, I’m not asking for anything. But Emily *believes* you’ll come. Just once. Just talk to her.”
“Come?” He scoffed. “Got to bring gifts, flowers… no spare cash for that. Don’t lie to the kid.”
“Choke on your bloody money,” her mother hissed on her way out, slamming the door behind her.
Emily grew up quiet, obedient, achingly diligent. No tantrums. No complaints. Just relentless effort—to be *good enough.* To excel in school, not for ambition, but because somewhere deep inside, she still hoped: *If he hears how well I’m doing, he’ll come. Smile. Ruffle my hair. Say he’s proud.*
But he never came.
“Mum, can we invite him for my birthday? I don’t want presents. Just for him to *be* there…”
Her mother said nothing. Emily would lock herself in her room and cry. Because she *knew.*
She graduated with top marks, her dress sewn by hand, grandparents in from the countryside. But two hours before the ceremony, she sat outside her father’s block of flats. She wanted to invite him. Show him the woman she’d become. Hear him say—just once—*”I’m sorry, love. I’m proud of you.”*
He stepped out. Workbag over his shoulder, eyes skipping past her.
“Dad!” she called. “It’s me. Emily!”
He turned. Paused.
“You’ve grown,” he said flatly.
“I’ve finished school. With honours. I’m going to university in London—”
“Don’t have the money for that. Don’t even ask.”
“I’m *not*! I—I wanted you at my graduation.”
He snorted. “What’s the point?”
She ran. Tears burning. And there, alone on the pavement, she realised: her childhood was over.
She got her degree. Returned home when Mum fell ill. Landed a job. Met Daniel—steady, kind. Married. Had a daughter. Then another. She carved the word “Dad” out of her heart. Never spoke of him.
Today, she turned thirty. A milestone. The flat was alive with laughter—Mum with the grandkids, Daniel off to fetch his parents. Emily buzzed around the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner.
The doorbell rang. She hurried, expecting the in-laws—but *he* stood there. Grey at the temples, time carved into his face.
“Came to wish you happy birthday. Didn’t even get an invite to the wedding. Too tight to spare a plate for your own father? I’m getting on now. You ought to help—”
“You’re too late, Dad,” she cut in, voice steady. “I waited for you every single day. Prayed for you to show up. You weren’t there for my first day of school. My graduation. *Nothing.* Now? I don’t *need* you. And don’t you dare blame me. You weren’t invited. *Leave.*”
“Not even letting me in?”
“No. Never.”
The door shut.
He lingered. Raised his hand to the bell—hesitated. Then the lift slid open, spilling out laughter, older couples and a young man juggling gifts and flowers.
“Here for us?” Daniel asked.
Her father shook his head. “Wrong floor.”
He took the stairs, slow. From above, voices spilled:
“Sweetheart, happy birthday!”
The words pierced straight through him. Too late. All of it—gone.
