**Diary Entry**
Its been twenty-five years, and today, I stood at the entrance of a grand hotel in London, my heart pounding. The suit I wore was neatly pressed but outdatedsomething Id kept from another lifetime. My thinning gray hair clung stubbornly to my scalp, as if unsure whether to obey the wind or memory. I adjusted my collar in the reflection of the polished glass, took a steadying breath, and stepped inside.
Almost immediately, a security guard blocked my path, his expression flickering between disbelief and disdain. “Who are you?” he snapped. “This isnt a soup kitchen.”
“Im here for the wedding,” I replied softly. “My daughters getting married.” The words tasted bittersweet on my tongue.
He muttered into his radio, eyeing me with suspicion. I tried to peer past him into the hall, but the celebration was tucked away, out of sight. Moments later, two men in sharp suits escorted me to a side room.
A womanelegant, polishedglared at me as if I were a stray animal. “What are you doing here? Leave. You dont belong.”
“I only wanted to see my daughter,” I whispered.
The grooms parents exchanged glances. To them, I was an intruder, a relic of a past theyd rather forget. “Were well-respected here,” the woman said coldly, smoothing her designer dress. “And you are?”
“An interesting question,” I murmured.
“An unnecessary one,” she countered. “Look around. People are here to celebrate, not to pity you. Dont ruin the day.”
“Edward Whitmore,” I said, offering my hand.
She recoiled as if I carried disease. Realising I wouldnt be welcomed, I explained, “I didnt come for the food. The train fare alone cost nearly my entire pension.”
That only deepened their suspicion. “Wait here,” the woman relented, her tone dripping with condescension. “Well fetch you some leftovers. Eat on your way home.”
“I didnt come for charity,” I said quietly. “I just wanted to see Emily.”
The husband scoffed. “Weve paid for everything. Planned everything. And now you turn up uninvited?”
“Shes part of our family now!” the woman snapped. “No ones heard of you in years. You cant just waltz in and pretend you belong!”
I bowed my head, my worn shoes a stark contrast to their polished leather. With a sigh, I agreed to take the foodnot out of hunger, but defeat.
Emily *was* my daughter. And I hadnt seen her in twenty-five years.
I dont deny my mistakes. Life had been cruel. My wife, Margaret, fell illcancer. Treatment drained us dry. When she passed, I was left with a child I couldnt care for. My wages were meagre, the house crumbling. Id heard stories of Swedens safety netsbenefits, support. But what of *me*? Who would watch Emily while I worked myself to the bone?
In despair, I signed the papers, sending her to a childrens home. I told myself it was temporarysix months, a year at most. Id save, return, and rebuild our lives.
But when I came back, the home had closed. The children were scattered. Officials dismissed me: “You signed her away. Youve no rights here.”
Years slipped by. Lawyers took my money and offered no hope. The internet was still a noveltyno Facebook, no search engines. Just endless doors closing in my face.
Then, a miracle. A lost phone, a strangers kindness. Scrolling through, I stumbled upon a photoa young woman who looked *exactly* like Margaret. My hands shook as I traced her face.
The owner helped me track her down. It *was* Emily. After a lifetime of searching, I found herjust in time for her wedding.
Yet here I stood, barred from the celebration.
So I slipped past them. The music faded as I reached for the microphone. I sangthe lullaby Id written for her as a child. A song no one else knew.
The room fell silent. Then Emily spoke, her voice breaking: “This is my father. Hes been gone but never forgotten.”
She hugged me, tears soaking my jacket. Even the grooms parents softened, offering me a seat. I didnt eat. I only watched herher smile, her joyand ached for the years wed lost.
Before leaving, I pressed a small box into her hands. “From your mother,” I said. “A family heirloom. For you and one day, your daughter.”
Inside was an antique locket, passed down generations. The grooms motheronce so coldlooked at me differently then. Not because of its value, but because she *understood*.
“Forgive me,” I whispered.
Emily didnt answer with words. Her embrace said everything.
I left quietly, not wanting to dim her happiness. Back to my empty house, my solitary life.
Until one evening, a knock at the door. I knew*felt*it was her.
Emily stood there, suitcase in hand. “I forgive you,” she said simply. “And Im staying.”
Shed been told I abandoned her. That she wasnt wanted. It took a lost phone, a twist of fate, to mend what time had broken.
Now, at last, were a family again.
