**July 15th, 1984**
When Emily turned six, her world split in two. One ordinary evening, her father packed his bags and walked out—not to work, not to the shops—but for good. Back then, she didn’t understand the cold, grown-up word *divorce*. She only knew he never came back. Never hugged her. Never kissed the top of her head at bedtime. Never whispered, “I’m here.”
It’s a story as common as rain in Manchester. But to one little girl, it was the end of everything. She blamed herself. *She* ate. *She* needed clothes. Soon, school—another expense. And when Mum lost her job, poor Dad must’ve cracked under the weight of it all.
“Mum,” she whispered one night, blue eyes wide, “if I eat less… will Dad come back? I’ll only have meals at school, promise.”
Her mother pulled her close and cried—great, heaving sobs. Emily ate less and less. Dad never returned.
**September 1st, 1990**
First day of school. Crisp white blouse, pleated skirt, shiny shoes, hair in ribbons like a doll from Harrods’ window. Staring in the mirror, she thought, *If Dad saw me now, he’d stay. Who’d leave a daughter this perfect?*
Mum held her hand; in the other, a bouquet for the teacher. Emily scanned the crowd—not from fear, but hope. *He’ll come. He must.*
“Emily, love, why’re you looking round so much?” Mum murmured.
She wasn’t scared. She was searching. With her eyes, her heart, her breath. *He’s here. He just hasn’t spotted me yet.*
When assembly ended, she bit her lip hard to stop the tears. All that effort—for nothing. Or maybe… *maybe he saw but couldn’t reach me?*
“Is Dad waiting at home?” she asked on the walk back.
Mum’s voice thickened. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
Emily sprinted ahead. Threw open the door. Empty. That’s when she broke—proper, wrenching sobs.
Mum stroked her hair, made excuses: *Work kept him.* But she knew. She’d begged him once—*”Thomas, just see her. She waits for you.”*
His reply? *”What, show up empty-handed? Kids expect presents. I’ve got no bloody money for that.”*
*”Choke on your money, then,”* Mum had hissed, slamming the door.
Emily grew quiet. Obedient. Top marks—not for ambition, but the frail hope: *If I’m perfect, he’ll come. Say he’s proud.*
He never did.
“Mum,” she asked before her 10th birthday, “invite him? I don’t want gifts. Just… him.”
Silence. Emily cried into her pillow. She *knew*.
At eighteen, gold medal in hand, she stood outside his flat in Croydon. He walked past—briefcase, distracted gaze—until she shouted, *”Dad! It’s me!”*
A pause. *”You’ve grown.”*
*”I graduated top of my class. Off to Cambridge in autumn—”*
*”Don’t ask me for tuition.”*
*”I’m not! I—I wanted you at prom.”*
He shrugged. *”What’d I do there?”*
She ran. Childhood died on that pavement.
Years later—degree, job, a kind man named James, two daughters—she scrubbed *Dad* from her heart.
**Today. Her 30th birthday.**
The flat buzzes with laughter. Mum’s with the girls; James fetches his parents. Emily’s icing the cake when—
*Ding-dong.*
She thinks it’s the in-laws. But no.
Him. Grey at the temples, shuffling in a worn coat.
“Came to wish you happy birthday. Bit miffed you didn’t invite me to the wedding. Ashamed of your old man?”
Her grip tightens on the door. “You’re thirty years too late. I waited for you—at school gates, graduation, every birthday. You never came. Now? I don’t need you. *Leave.*”
His hand hovers near the bell as the lift dings. Out spill James’ parents, arms full of gifts.
“Here for us?” James asks.
Dad mumbles, “Wrong floor,” and trudges downstairs.
Above him, laughter. *”Happy birthday, love!”*
The words twist like a knife. Some chances don’t come twice.
**Lesson:** A father’s love shouldn’t be a question mark. By the time he answers, the child’s already stopped asking.
