**Diary Entry: A Father’s Love**
Geoffrey Carter spent his entire life dedicated to one thing—raising his only daughter to be a good person. After tragedy struck and his wife passed away from a stroke, little Maisie was left in his care. He was barely thirty at the time and, from that moment, never gave a thought to himself. Every penny he earned, every ounce of strength—it all went to her.
They lived in a modest house just outside Manchester, barely making ends meet. Geoffrey worked construction, took shifts as a night watchman, even carried crates at the docks when he had to. He’d skip meals for days just so Maisie could have new school shoes or a pretty dress for the school play. And every time he saw her smile, he thought—*this is why I keep going*.
Christmas was always special. Maisie adored the school nativity plays, the carols, the little gifts. Once, he spent his last £50 on a silver tinsel dress so she could play an angel—she twirled in it, beaming, and hugged him tight. “You’re the best dad ever,” she whispered.
Years passed. Maisie aced her A-levels and left for London to study at uni. It was what she’d dreamed of. At first, things were normal—halls of residence, part-time jobs, lectures. But then London changed her. Manicures became luxury spa days; high-street clothes turned to designer labels. She started dating men with money—cocktails at Mayfair clubs, weekends in the Cotswolds. Geoffrey still sent her care parcels, still rang just to hear her voice. But she stopped picking up.
Then came the text—no greeting, no warmth. *Dad, please don’t come to the wedding. It’s all very high-profile guests, and you… well, you wouldn’t fit in.* That was it. No explanation, no invitation, not a word of thanks.
Geoffrey read it again and again. His chest ached. He’d given her everything—worked his fingers to the bone, never complained, never asked for anything. And now? She was ashamed of him. Ashamed of the man who might not know which fork to use but had held her through every fever, every scraped knee.
Still, he took the train down. He had to see her one last time—not for the canapés or champagne, but to look her in the eye. At the church, he stood at the back, quiet in his worn-out blazer, clutching a bunch of garden roses wrapped in newspaper.
When the newlyweds greeted their guests, he stepped forward, pressed the flowers into her hands, kissed her cheek, and said, “Be happy, love. Live well.”
Then he turned to leave. No demands, no scene. He wouldn’t beg.
Maisie froze. The room buzzed with laughter, the string quartet played, her groom chatted with some banker—but all she saw was her father’s retreating figure. The man who’d given her everything. And she’d thrown him away.
Tears welled up. She ran after him, catching him at the door. “Dad—wait. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me… I was stupid. I thought I had to impress people, but all I did was hurt us. Please forgive me. You’re my family—you’re all I’ve got.”
He didn’t speak. Just held her tight. And in that moment, Maisie understood—no amount of money could replace those arms. In chasing approval, she’d nearly lost the one person who loved her unconditionally.
**Lesson:** Pride fades. Love doesn’t.
