This is the story of meEmily Watsona woman who, at the ripe age of 27, dreamt of having a child. Unfortunately, life being the wily character it is, handed me the father of my dreams in the least ideal packaging: a married man whom I adored beyond all reason. Predictably, his steadfast convictions didn’t allow him to leave his wife, so my only souvenir from our romance was pregnancy. As fate would have it, my lover still offered support, but my family was divided. Only my mother stood by me; for my father, having a child out of wedlock was the kind of scandal that could send him to his grave, and he utterly refused to treat my daughter as his grandchild. My wounded heart simply couldn’t withstand the thought of bringing my little girl into my parents home, knowing full well shed be about as welcome as a wasp at a picnic.
Mum did her best, gently begging me to come by, but I could tell she was the only one with genuine enthusiasm about the whole arrangement. My brother, bless his heart, loved me dearly and doted on my daughter as if she’d been crowned Princess of the Nursery. When my girl turned two, my brother announced he was getting married and invited us to the wedding. I hesitatedI hardly wanted to cast a long shadow over his celebration. I expected Dad to shoot us a look icy enough to chill the curry, and figured wed be about as popular as a rainstorm at a summer fete. But between the persuasive trio of my brother, mother, and soon-to-be sister-in-law, I eventually caved.
The wedding, as British weddings often are, was overrun with children, but my daughter stuck outnot because of her looks, but because she had the darkest curls in the whole church. I watched her like a hawk all evening. I knew my father had a soft spot for children, but I never imagined what would unfold. Next thing I knew, I turned around and caught him with my daughter cradled in his arms, both deep in conversation as if they hadnt a care in the world. Not wanting to interrupt whatever magic was happening, I watched them spend the evening together, feeling a cocktail of emotions.
At the end of the night, Dad came to me, andfor the first time in what felt like an agewe hugged. In a moment of utter sincerity, he apologised and asked me, so kindly, to come home with his granddaughter. The guests, as is tradition, whispered their own theories into their pints of ale, but honestly, I couldnt have cared less. I forgave my father, and now my daughter has a proper English granddad. And isnt that, when alls said and done, the heart of true happiness?
