**Diary Entry**
I never imagined it would end like thisafter twenty-five years, I finally made it to my daughters wedding, only to be turned away at the door. And then, moments later, the sound of weeping filled the room.
I hesitated at the grand entrance of an upscale restaurant in London. My suit, though carefully pressed, was undeniably datedsomething Id worn decades ago, now pulled from the depths of my wardrobe. My thinning gray hair was combed as neatly as possible, though time had left its mark. Staring at my reflection in the tinted glass, I straightened my collar, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside.
A security guard blocked my path, eyeing me as if I were some relic from another era.
Who are you? he demanded, voice clipped. This isnt a shelter, mate.
Im here for a wedding, I murmured. My daughters getting married today. I managed a faint, sorrowful smile.
He frowned, muttered into his radio, and shot me another suspicious glance. My pulse quickened as I tried to peer through the glass partitions, but the ceremony was out of sightsomewhere deeper in the restaurant.
Within moments, two suited men appeared, wordlessly guiding me to a back room.
A womanthe grooms mothershoved me away as if I were rubbish. Get out! You dont belong here!
I only wanted to see my daughter, I whispered.
They scoffed. To them, I couldnt possibly be related to the elegant young bride.
Were well-respected people, the woman snapped, smoothing her designer blazer. Who *are* you?
A fair question, I replied.
An unnecessary one, she shot back. Look aroundthis is a celebration. Dont ruin it.
She thrived on control, her anger rising with every word.
William Hartley, I said, offering my hand.
She recoiled, as though my mere touch might soil her.
Realising I wouldnt be welcomed, I explained, I didnt come for the food. The journey cost nearly my entire pensiontrains from Manchester arent cheap.
That only deepened their disdain.
Fine, she relented, tone dripping with condescension. Well fetch you some leftovers. Eat them on your way home.
Thats not why I came, I said quietly. I only wanted to see Emily.
Only wanted to see, the husband mocked. Weve paid for this wedding, organised every detail, and now *he* shows up?
Shes *family* to us now, the woman hissed. Our sons wife. And you think you can waltz in as if nothing happened? No ones ever heard of you!
Her gaze raked over my worn clothes, my polished but outdated shoes, before landing on my weathered hands. I folded them in my lap, defeated.
In truth, Emily *was* my daughter. And I hadnt seen her in twenty-five years.
Yes, I was to blame. I understood their judgment. But the past couldnt be undone.
If people knew how their choices would unravel, I thought bitterly, they mightve acted differently. Hindsight is always clearer.
Twenty-five years ago, when I last held little Emily, I never imagined it would be forever. I was 48, my wife 46. Our daughter had come late in life, a miracle wed longed for. But then my wife fell illcancer. The treatments drained our savings, and after her death, I was left alone with a child I couldnt support.
My wages were meagre. The house crumbled around us. Id read about Swedens generous welfare systemideal for children, they said. But what of *me*? Who would care for her if I worked myself to the bone abroad?
The winters there were brutal. Would she survive the cold? I couldnt bear the thought of her growing up in poverty. In my despair, I signed the papers, placing her in an orphanage. It was a blurmy grief too vast, my mind fractured.
Leaving her that day shattered me. Every night, I dreamed of her tears, her tiny hands reaching for me, begging, Daddy, dont go! I never meant to abandon her. I swore Id return in six monthsonce Id saved enough to give her a proper life.
But when I came back, the orphanage was closed. The children had been scattered across the country. I searched everywhere, met with bureaucratic indifference. You signed her away, they said. Youve no claim now.
The money Id earned vanished into futile home repairs. The gifts Id bought for her gathered dust. Years slipped by, and Emily became a ghost.
I hired solicitors, but most were charlatans. Without the internet, I had nothing but determinationand dwindling hope.
Then, a miracle. A lost phone. Mine was ancient, but I tried to return it. Scrolling through, I stumbled upon a photoa young woman who looked exactly like my late wife. My heart stopped.
The owner agreed to meet. I asked about the girl in the photo. By some twist of fate, it *was* Emily. Someone had shared the picture, and it reached me.
After a quarter-century, Id found her. I travelled hundreds of miles to be there on her wedding day. Yet they wouldnt let me in.
So I slipped past. While they fetched their so-called leftovers, I entered the hall. The guests stared as I stepped to the microphone. The music faded. I sangthe lullaby Id written for her as a child. A song only we knew.
Silence followed. Then Emily took the mic.
This is my father, she said, voice trembling. Hes been absent, but never forgotten.
She hugged me, weeping into my shoulder. Even the grooms parents softened. The groom himself gestured for me to sit.
I barely touched the food. I only watched herher face, now a womans, her new husband, the life shed built. Shes loved, I thought, bittersweet.
Later, I gave her a small boxwrapped clumsily by my own hands. Inside was an heirloom necklace, meant to pass from mother to daughter.
From your mother, I whispered. Now its yours.
Emilys fingers trembled as she opened it. The grooms motheronce so coldnow regarded me with something like respect. Not for the necklaces value, but for what it meant.
Forgive me, I said.
Emily didnt answer with words. Her embrace said everything.
I left quietly, not wanting to disrupt the joy. Back in Manchester, my old house stood unchanged. Neighbours had moved on. I was alone again.
Until the knock at my door.
I knew it was her before I opened it. Emily stood there, suitcase in hand.
I forgive you, she said simply. And Im staying.
Shed only known half the truthtold at the orphanage that shed been unwanted. It had made her guarded, untrusting. Yet shed built a life: university, independence. The fear of rejection had kept her from searching for me.
But a lost phone, of all things, had brought us back together.
