A Father’s Story To his Daughter on Her Wedding Day
My Daughter
The day you were born was a shock for me. “Put her away. Have another. “
How could we, your mother and me? Your tiny fingers grasped mime. Even as a newborn you were a feisty wee thing. “It’ll be a struggle,” they sighed. “All that effort, will it amount to nothing. Take our advice, put her away… somewhere – have another.”
We took you home, eventually. You were tiny but your eyes sparkled like two bright diamonds determined to fight for your place in this world you had been born into. “She will not talk or walk. You are putting a burden on your marriage you don’t need to carry. Turn, walk away, and leave her to us. There is no shame in that,” they said softly persuasively. .
We closed our ears. We made a pact, your mother and I. We’d treat you like your brothers and sister and expect as much from you as we did from them.
As you struggled we struggled too.
The first time you pulled yourself to your feet and stood up clinging precariously to the bars of your cot – long after you should have been walking, we held ourselves and the other children back from rushing to your aid. You fell down and got up again and promptly fell down again. But you my lovely girl got up again every time, then and later.
“She’ll not let it beat her,” I said with pride and trepidation clenching my hands to keep from helping.
Like a pair of excited children, we related the good news. “Don’t expect too much. She’ll never amount to much,” was the response.
“They didn’t know you, daughter. If they had they wouldn’t have given up on you.”
A new dilemma raised it head – you were the age for school but no school uniform to fit your small frame. “Maybe you should keep her at home? What will she need learning for anyway?” they said not unkindly.
Surprisingly, your granny nearly lost her head. “Who do they think they’re talking to? She has a right to education like the rest of the kids” She got out her sewing machine and made you a little pleated skirt. A neighbour woman arrived with a hand knit school cardigan she had shrunk in the wash. It was still too big so we padded it out; turned up the sleeves. You looked a funny sight – a female version of Tom Thumb in drag.
You moved up the school and insisted on doing Irish dancing like the rest. The others tripped over you, you were so small. But you didn’t give up. You cried and bawled ‘till you got shoes with flashing lights so they’d see where you were. Years later, I laughed out loud when your CV declared you had been a champion Irish dancer. It was true in a way. You deserved the highest accolade there was for your stubbornness and tenacity.
One day, the bishop of the parish visited your school. To your teacher’s consternation , you asked him for his hat (myter) it would make you taller and he’d see you then, you pointed out to him. (Your first slap on your tiny hands for speaking out of turn without being asked)
Your mother and I argued and shouted each other down. You wanted a bike – like your sibling had. Fear held me back. You’d be killed on the road outside our house. And being you you’d want to take it to school – like everyone else. In the end your mother wore me down.
Having a bike opened up a whole new world to you.
Old biddies in the neighbourhood, tutted and frowned ; stopped me on the road to inform me I was creating expectations in you – making you think you were like everybody else. It would all come to a sticky end, they assured me .The world would see you for what you were – treat you differently from everybody else. Giving you a bike wouldn’t change their point of view.
Anger boiled up and exploded in me. “True enough,” I said through gritted teeth. “But maybe my daughter might change you and the likes of you with outdated minds. Maybe even change the world’s view of people like my lovely girl.”
They didn’t know you were ‘big’ in the inside. Daughter. They just saw your little frame and missed your head full of dreams waiting to be lived.
Remember the day, important educators visited your college and asked for a speaker from the floor? You were too small to be seen behind the podium but you were certainly heard.
Then, one day, you were my darling’girl and I was your world and the next you were a stroppy, hormonal teenager with a mouth like a sewer!
New worries filled our lives. You loved boys – found them fascinating. My protection you shunned – you’d go your own way, you yelled. You didn’t need me or your mother on your tail. You had your own friends now.
Strange things begin to happen to your personality. For the first time, you begin to let your shortness of statue dictate your life. I heard you say,” I can’t do that because I’m made the way I am.” Words I thought I’d never hear clogging up my ears.
I wanted my feisty daughter back; Even if she scrambled my brains and screeched abuse at her mother and I.
And then you were 17 and in love with Slimy Slim; street wise, tattooed and carrying a heavy attitude.
What your mother and I didn’t see was that SS, as your siblings called him, behind his back, would, in the end turn out to be a god-send. He took none of your self-pitying adolescent wailing or moody storms. Earphones clamped to his head to cut out your whining voice, he ignored you, went his own way. You had never been ignored before. It was like an earthquake to your system.
He blasted you with insulting sneers. “Get over yourself, you crying freak. If you had been a dog you’d have been drowned when you were born.”
We warned our other children not to smash his head in like we secretly wanted to do ourselves.
Slimy Slim lasted six month and then he left you to stew and get over your first love affair.
Slimy Slim was time well spent with you, I later agreed. His tough loved succeeded where my love had failed. He pushed you headlong out of your teenage years into young adulthood.
Overnight, it seemed, you were 18 and Slimy Slim was a distant memory.
Like a caterpillar shredding its shell you morphed into a beautiful butterfly. You succeeded at whatever you turned your hand to. A pair of six inch heels gave you the height you craved. Your choice of career – drama and dance – film making in the wings, incredibly, you had found your niche, your career path.
A man of normal size fell madly in love with the unique individual you had become.. You moved in with him; treated him as Slimy slim had treated you. It wouldn’t last I told myself. Could he see your beauty, love you; see past your lack of height? Or, when the novelty of him living with a freak wore off would he cast you aside, leave you, go his own way, and get a ‘normal’ girl to share his flat.
I hated myself for thinking such things. I questioned myself. Was I jealous you could get on with your own life, independent of my care – another man as your protector?
In the end you left him and found your own true love.
Now you are 25. I wait for you to descend the stairs; wait, to proudly walk you up the chapel aisle.
I smile as you turn the bend on the stairs. How beautiful you are in your gown of ivory silk.
What fun your mother and I had doing the rounds with you to get the perfect dress. I offered, begged, pleaded to let me pay to have a wedding dress designed especially just for you. You gave me that feisty stare. “I’ll not be different. I’ll find a dress and a wedding veil.”
Bridal shops, dress shops, poor shop assistants nearly in tears, proffering, party dresses, Holy Communion dresses and everything in between. You‘d look and say, making them blush red faced, “I’m a bride not a child.” Worn out – their worst day at work realised – trying to find the right dress and the right words to say in their best professional way, bridal gowns rarely came in your size, they’d wilt and withdraw to gather up the dresses littering the chairs and sofas
They didn’t know you, daughter. You’d find the one.
And then miraculously, it seemed, the sign on a window that boldly affirmed,” We have wedding dress in every size and shades.”
We sipped champagne, your mother and I and glowed with pride; our beautiful, talented feisty daughter, we were told to discard to an institution was marrying the man of her dreams.
You tried on every dress in that shop, it seemed; then went back to the first one you had tried on and without a qualm or apology requested it to be resized to fit you.
I don’t know what your future may hold but I know you will succeed; find a way to get on with your life. It might take a bishop’s hat or shoes that sparkle as you dance, I thin, as you entwines your fingers in mine like you did the day you were born as you proudly steps out into the next part of your life.
Be happy my daughter. Be the unique individual you were born to be.
Your loving Daddy.
Ps: The shock has worn off now. I am so proud of you.
Gemma Hill ©
February 2023
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 