Daddy's girl

When I was a little girl I loved my Daddy more than the entire world.

However it was my Mother who was the constant in my life. She was the one who picked me up when I fell and kissed the pain away. The one who read me bedtime stories and sang to me when I had nightmares. The one who walked me home after school to my dance rehearsals and spent night upon night sowing together outfits for my shows, in which she came to every single one, clapping louder and with more passion than any other in the room. Never was a child loved so much by a parent and I knew this fact. I took it for granted.

On the other hand my Daddy was a rare existence. He was always busy with work, shut away in his office at weekends. While my Mother threw lavish parties for my birthday with homemade banquets, my Daddy's appearance was a treat that made my day complete. I idolised him, and each time I made him smile I felt as if I had achieved a very great thing indeed, because he did not throw around his affection like my Mother did, you had to earn it. I still remember the first time my Daddy hugged me, I was four years old and I had just completed my first dance exam. I'd achieved a special commendation - the crème de la crème - and when I presented it to him he rewarded me with that first blissful hug.

When I was five, my Daddy started working aboard. He would go away for a month at a time and only returned for two weeks. I treasured those two solitary weeks when he was home, I spent every minute of it around him, chattering non-stop, and occasionally he would smile at my comments. More often than not he would pat me on the head absentmindedly and say, "I'm busy Alicia." Before I knew it he was gone once more.

By the time I was seven my Mother had had enough. Daddy's home time had become nothing more than arguments; my Mother fiery, shouting; my Daddy calm and patronizing. One night my Mother came into my bedroom and explained what was going on. "Liss, can we talk? You see Mummy and Daddy don't," she paused, "can't love each other anymore. I'm leaving Daddy, Liss, and I'm not going to live here anymore. You can come with me if you want, or you can stay with Daddy, or you can go between us both. It doesn't matter who you live with, honey, because I will always be here for you and I will always love you."

It came as no surprise to my Mother when I told her, "I want to stay with Daddy."

Therefore my parents divorced, and my Daddy worked in England to look after me. Despite this fact my Mother remained the only one who attended my shows - which had now become the fabric of my life. Regardless of my young age I had decided, I was going to be a dancer.

Shortly after my eighth birthday my Daddy announced that he was to return to work overseas, this time a month on and off. I was introduced to Linda, a plump, charming woman who was my nanny whilst my Daddy was away. I very quickly grew fond of her and soon allowed her to attend my dancing events, yet I privately agreed with my Mother that it was nonsense to have a nanny at all when I could have happily stayed with her whilst Daddy was away.

Fourteen was not a year I enjoyed. My Daddy decided I was far too old for Linda and thus fired her. I was horrified and I cried all night after she had kissed me goodbye. Daddy scolded me for being so childish. I soon adapted to running a household, as my Daddy continued to work aboard, and at fifteen I was the most mature teen in my class - a fact my Mother frowned upon. I heard her once say to my Daddy, "Phillip, she needs to enjoy being a kid, she needs to be looked after."

"Nonsense," he would reply.

Naturally my Daddy was always right.

Upon my eighteenth year I had begun to aspire to my dream career. I had an audition with the Royal Academy of Dance; my Mother drove me down to London and held my hand as I shook with nerves in the waiting room. She could barely drink her coffee with the weight of both our nerves as we waited for the result. When they informed me I would be attending in September I cried tears of pure oblivion into her arms.

Later that year, on August 30th, my Mother waited outside my home to drive me to the Academy. My Daddy was oblivious as I placed my suitcase in the car, my room neatly packed away in boxes for storage. He did not notice as I peered into his office, duffel bag in hand or even as I took the house key out of my pocket and placed it on the kitchen table.

"Goodbye Daddy," I called.

"Huh? Oh right, goodbye Alicia, will you be back for dinner or shall I order in a takeaway?"

I did not reply.

Instead I slid into the car with tears in my eyes. My Mother squeezed my hand in simple understanding and drove off.

When I was a little girl I loved my Daddy more than the entire world.

I have long since outgrown such nonsense.