Long ago, when little Matilda was but six years old, her world split clean in two. One evening, her father packed his bags and walked out the door—not to work, not to the shops, but forever. Too young to grasp the meaning of that dreadful grown-up word “divorce,” she only knew he never returned. No more bedtime kisses, no strong arms around her, no whispered *”I’m here.”*
It might seem an ordinary tale, common as any in modern times. But to one small girl, it was the end of all things, for she had decided it was her fault. She needed feeding. Clothes. Soon, school expenses. And with Mum out of work, poor Dad had just… had enough.
*”Mum, if I eat less, will Dad come back? I could just have meals at school…”* she whispered one day, blue eyes wide with hope.
Her mother held her tight and wept. Wept for a long while. And Matilda—she ate less and less. Yet still, her father never came.
Autumn arrived, and with it, her first day at school. A crisp white blouse, a navy pinafore, shiny shoes, and ribbons like those on the dolls in shop windows. Staring into the mirror, she thought, *If Dad saw me now, he’d surely come back. Who wouldn’t want a daughter as fine as this?*
Mum gripped her hand, a bouquet for the teacher in the other. Excitement and fear tangled inside her, but above it all burned a single, desperate hope: *He’ll come. He must.*
*”Matilda, why d’you keep looking round? Don’t fret, I’m right here,”* Mum murmured.
But she wasn’t afraid. She was searching—scanning the crowd for him, with her eyes, her heart, her very breath. *He’s here*, she told herself. *I just can’t see him yet.*
When the assembly ended and the children filed inside, she bit her lip hard to keep from crying. All that effort—for nothing. Or was it? Maybe he *had* seen her. Maybe he just hadn’t approached.
*”Is Dad waiting at home?”* she asked on the walk back.
*”I don’t know, love,”* Mum replied, voice heavy.
Matilda dashed ahead anyway, certain she’d find him there. The flat was empty. Only then did the tears come—real ones, thick and hot.
Mum stroked her hair, murmuring excuses—*Work must’ve kept him*—though she knew the truth. He wouldn’t come. Not even when she’d gone to him, pleading:
*”Thomas, I’m not asking for myself. But Matilda *believes*. Just see her once. Talk to her.”*
*”See her?*” He’d waved her off. *”That means flowers, gifts—haven’t the money for all that. Don’t lie to the kid.”*
*”May you choke on every penny,”* her mother spat, slamming the door behind her.
Matilda grew quiet, dutiful, relentless in her efforts. Top marks, never a fuss. Not for ambition’s sake, but because somewhere deep down, she thought, *If he hears how well I’m doing, he’ll come. He’ll smile. Say he’s proud.*
He never did.
*”Mum, let’s invite him for my birthday. No presents. Just him.”*
Silence. And Matilda would shut herself away to cry, because she *knew*.
Secondary school ended with top honours. Leavers’ Ball—a night for family pride. Dress ready, grandparents up from Somerset. Yet two hours before, she sat on a bench outside his flat, willing herself to knock. *Look at me now. Just once, say you’re sorry. Say you’re proud.*
He stepped out, briefcase on shoulder, gaze sliding past her.
*”Dad!”* she called. *”It’s me!”*
A pause. A glance.
*”Grown up,”* he said flatly.
*”I’ve finished school. Top marks. Off to Cambridge soon—”*
*”I’ve no money. Don’t ask.”*
*”I’m not! I— I wanted you at the Ball.”*
*”What’d I do there?”*
She ran. Ran until her lungs burned. On a street corner, choking on tears, she understood: childhood was over.
University. A return home when Mum fell ill. A job. Meeting Edward—steady, kind. Marriage. Two daughters. The word *”Dad”* she scraped from her heart like old paint. Never spoke of him again.
Now, thirty years old. A Saturday. The flat buzzed with laughter—Mum with the girls, Edward fetching his parents. Matilda at the stove, stirring gravy.
The bell rang.
She hurried, expecting in-laws. Instead—him. Grey at the temples, older than she remembered.
*”Came to wish you happy birthday. Didn’t even invite me to the wedding. Too mean to set a plate for your old man?”*
Her voice was steel. *”You’re late. Years ago, I waited for you every day. Prayed for you. You never came. Not to my first day of school. Not to the Ball. And now? I don’t need you. Don’t you *dare* blame me. Go.”*
*”Won’t let me in?”*
*”No.”*
The door shut.
He lingered. Hand hovering at the bell. Then the lift opened—laughter, voices, an elderly couple and a young man arms full of gifts.
*”Here for us?”* the man asked.
*”Wrong flat.”*
He took the stairs. Slow steps. From above floated voices:
*”Happy birthday, darling!”*
The words struck like stones. Too late. All of it—gone.
