“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 half. One ordinary evening, her father packed his things and walked out of the flat. Not to work. Not to the shops. Forever. At the time, she didn’t understand the crushing weight of that grown-up word—”divorce.” All she knew was that from that moment, he never came back. Never hugged her. Never kissed the top of her head at bedtime. Never whispered, “I’m here.”
On the surface, it was a story like so many others. Ordinary. Unremarkable. But for one little girl, it was the end of the world—because she had convinced herself it was her fault. She ate too much. She needed clothes. Soon, school would mean more expenses. And with Mum losing her job, poor Dad just couldn’t carry them both anymore…
“Mum, if I eat less, will Dad come back? I could just have meals at school…” she whispered one night, her blue eyes searching her mother’s face.
Her mother pulled her close and wept—long, silent sobs that shook them both. Emily ate less and less after that. But Dad never came home.
September arrived. First day of school. Emily, in her crisp white blouse, black skirt, smart blazer, and two enormous ribbons—like the dolls in the shop windows—stood before the mirror and thought, *If Dad saw me now, he’d come back. Who could leave a daughter this perfect?*
Mum held her hand tightly, a bouquet for the teacher in her other. Emily was excited. Nervous. But above all, she was certain: *He’ll come. He has to. Today’s the day.*
“Emily, why do you keep looking around? Don’t worry, I’m right here,” Mum murmured.
But Emily wasn’t afraid. She was searching. Scouring the crowd for a glimpse of him—with her eyes, her heart, her very breath. She *knew* he was there. Maybe he just hadn’t spotted her yet. She was in the front row—he *had* to see her.
When the assembly ended and the new pupils filed into class, Emily bit her lip hard, refusing to cry. She’d tried so hard. Had it mattered? Or—what if he *had* seen her? What if he just hadn’t said hello?
“Is Dad waiting at home?” she asked her mother on the walk back.
“I don’t know, love,” came the heavy reply.
But Emily sprinted ahead anyway. She *knew* he’d be there. She flung the door open—and found the flat empty. Only then did she sob. Deep, heaving cries that left her breathless.
Mum stroked her hair, murmuring excuses—maybe work hadn’t let him go. But they both knew the truth. He wasn’t coming. He hadn’t come the day Mum went to him, pleading:
“James, I’m not asking for anything. But Emily’s waiting. She *believes* in you. Just come once. Talk to her.”
“Come?” He scoffed. “That means gifts, flowers… I haven’t got the money. Don’t lie to the kid.”
“May you choke on every last penny,” her mother hissed, slamming the door behind her.
Emily grew up. Quiet. Obedient. Trying—*always* trying—to be good. No tantrums, no complaints, no difficult questions. Just endless effort to be *perfect.* Top marks, not for ambition, but because somewhere, deep down, she thought, *If 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, let’s invite him to my birthday? I don’t want presents. Just… him.”
Her mother stayed silent. Emily shut herself in her room and cried. Because she knew.
She graduated with top honours. Her prom night—a celebration meant to make her family proud. Her dress was ready. Her grandparents had travelled up from the countryside. But two hours before, she sat on a bench outside his building, willing herself to knock. To show him who she’d become. To hear him say, *I’m sorry. I’m proud of you.*
He emerged, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes skimming past strangers. Past *her.*
“Dad!” she cried. “It’s me! Emily!”
He turned. A beat of silence.
“You’ve grown,” he said flatly.
“I finished school. Top of my year. I’m applying to Oxford—”
“I haven’t got the money. Don’t ask.”
“I’m not! I—I wanted to invite you to prom.”
“And do *what* there?”
She ran. The tears came in ugly, choking gasps. There, alone on the street corner, she understood: her childhood was over.
Years passed. University. A return home when Mum fell ill. A job. Meeting Daniel—steady, kind. Marriage. Two daughters. The word *Dad* was carved out of her heart. Never spoken, never mourned.
Today, she’s thirty. A milestone. The flat is alive with laughter—Mum playing with the girls, Daniel out collecting his parents. Emily’s in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the meal.
The doorbell rings. She rushes to answer, expecting her in-laws—but *he* stands there. Her father. Older now, grey at his temples.
“Thought I’d come say happy birthday. You didn’t invite me to the wedding. What, too tight to spare a plate for your old man? I’m not getting any younger. You ought to help—”
“You’re late, Dad. I waited for you *every day.* Prayed for you to show up. You missed my first day of school. My prom. My *life.* And now? I don’t need you. Don’t you *dare* guilt me. I didn’t invite you. *Leave.*”
“You won’t let me in?”
“No. I won’t.”
She slammed the door.
He lingered. Raised his hand to ring again—hesitated. Then the lift doors opened, spilling out cheerful voices—an older couple, a younger man, arms full of gifts and flowers.
“Here for us?” the man asked.
“No. Wrong floor.”
He took the stairs. Slowly. And from above, laughter floated down:
“Happy birthday, love!”
The words hit like a knife. Too late. Everything he’d lost—everything he’d thrown away—echoed in that single, stolen moment.
