**Diary Entry 12th June**
After twenty-five years, I finally made it to my daughters weddingonly to be turned away at the door. Moments later, the room was filled with tears.
An old man in a faded but carefully pressed suit hesitated outside the grand entrance of an upscale restaurant in London. His grey hair was thin, as if time itself had decided to retreat from his scalp. He paused, studying his reflection in the tinted glass, adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a burly security guard blocked his path, eyeing him like an unwelcome ghost.
“Who are you?” the guard barked. “This isnt a soup kitchen.”
“Im here for the wedding,” the old man murmured. “My daughters getting married today.” A sad, quiet smile touched his lips.
The guard muttered into his radio, casting wary glances his way. The old man tried to peer past the partitions, but the hall was out of sightthe celebration was tucked away in some distant wing.
Soon, two well-dressed men approached and steered him into a side room.
A sharply dressed woman recoiled as if he were something dirty. “What are you doing here? Get out!”
“I just wanted to see my daughter,” he said softly.
The couple exchanged glancesthese were the grooms parents. They couldnt fathom this ragged man being related to the bride.
“Were respectable people,” the woman snapped, smoothing her designer dress. “Who *are* you?”
“An interesting question,” he replied.
“An unnecessary one,” she shot back. “Look around. This is a celebration. Dont spoil it.”
“Albert Whitmore,” he introduced himself, extending a trembling hand.
She didnt take it, stepping back as if poverty were contagious.
Realising they wouldnt let him in, Albert tried to explain. “I didnt come for the food. The journey cost nearly my whole pension”
This only made them more suspicious.
“Fine,” the woman relented, though her tone was icy. “Well fetch you some leftovers. Eat somewhere else.”
“I didnt come for that,” he said, standing his ground. “I only want to see Emily.”
The husband scoffed. “*Now* he wants to play father? We paid for everything. We raised her!”
“Shes *our* family now,” the woman hissed. “No ones ever heard of you. And suddenly, here you are?” Her eyes lingered on his worn-out shoes.
“Maybe hes just after a free meal,” the husband muttered.
Albert bowed his head, his knotted hands clutching his knees. He glanced at his polished but aged shoes, then at the grooms fathers pristine oxfords. With a sigh, he nodded.
Left alone, Alberts mind drifted. Emily *was* his daughter. And he hadnt seen her in twenty-five years.
Oh, he knew he was to blame. He understood their scorn. But the past couldnt be undone.
“If only people knew how their choices would turn out,” he thought. “Hindsights a cruel thing.”
Twenty-five years ago, when he left little Emily, he hadnt imagined it would be forever. He was forty-eight; his wife, forty-six. Theyd had her late, after years of hoping. Then his wife fell illcancer. Treatment drained their savings. After her death, he was left alone with a child.
His job paid poorly. The house was crumbling. Hed heard Sweden had excellent care for childrenbenefits, stability. But what about *him*? Who would look after Emily if he worked himself to the bone abroad? The winters were harsh. Would she survive the cold?
In despair, he signed the papers, sending her to an orphanage. It was a blurhis mind numb, his heart shattered.
That last memory of hersmall hands reaching, crying, “Daddy, dont go!”haunted him every night. He never meant to leave her. He *swore* hed return in six months, once hed earned enough to fix the house, buy her gifts, start anew.
But when he came back, the orphanage was closed. The children had been relocated. No one would tell him where shed gone. “You signed the papers,” they said coldly. “You have no rights.”
Lawyers took his money and vanished. The internet was still youngno Facebook, no Google. Just endless dead ends. Hope faded.
Thenmiraculouslya lost phone changed everything. Albert found an old mobile in a park. Scrolling through, he saw a photo of a woman who looked just like his late wife. His heart stopped.
He tracked down the owner, who agreed to meet. Grateful, she asked how she could repay him. “Just tell me who this is,” he said, pointing to the photo.
Fate had intervened. It was Emily.
And so, after twenty-five years, he travelled across England to see his daughter on her wedding day. But they wouldnt let him in.
So he slipped past them.
The music played, but he didnt need it. He sangthe lullaby hed written for her as a child. A song only they knew.
The room fell silent.
Then Emily took the microphone. “This is my father,” she said, voice trembling. “He hasnt been here all these years, but hes always been in my heart.”
She hugged him tightly. Even the grooms parents softened. The wife dabbed her eyes; the husband gestured for Albert to sit.
He didnt eat. He only watched Emilyher face, her happiness, the love surrounding her. “Shes safe,” he thought. “Thats enough.”
Later, he pulled a small box from his pocket. Wrapped clumsily, but with care.
“This was your mothers,” he whispered. “Its meant to be passed down.”
Inside was an antique locketa family heirloom.
The grooms mother, once so cold, now looked at him differently. Not because of the gift, but because she understood what it meant to Emily.
“Forgive me,” Albert said.
Emily hugged him again. No words were needed.
He left quietly, not wanting to disrupt the joy. Back to his empty, crumbling house in Sheffield. The neighbours had moved or passed on. He was alone again.
Until one day, a knock at the door.
Something told him*its her.*
He opened it. Emily stood there, suitcase in hand.
“I forgive you,” she said simply. “And I want to stay.”
She hadnt known the full truth. The orphanage had told her shed been abandoned. That no one wanted her. Shed built walls, studied hard, made a life alone. The fear of rejection had kept her from searching.
But a lost phone had brought them back together.
**Lesson learned:** Regret is heavy, but love is stronger. Even after decades, some bonds never break.
