At just five years old, you stood quietly by the school gates, a beautiful little girl with bright eyes and soft curls falling around your face. You had always been told you were pretty — your skin smooth and glowing, your smile so innocent it could light up the room. But none of that mattered to you. As you watched the other kids play and laugh, you couldn’t help but feel different. They envied you, not just for your beauty but for the things they thought you had — the designer clothes, the shiny car your father drove. They thought your life was perfect, but you knew the truth.

Your father wasn’t like the other dads. He was cold, distant, his love reserved for anything but you. He had the money, the status, the car — but none of that ever felt like enough when you were with him. He never smiled at you like the other fathers did with their children, never looked at you with the same warmth. You longed for a moment when he would pick you up and say, "I love you," or even just smile and show he cared.

As you stood there, feeling the weight of those thoughts, you were about to speak up, to tell the truth — that beauty and wealth weren’t everything — but then you heard the hum of an engine. You turned, and there it was: your father’s sleek black car gliding to a stop. The door opened, and there he was, his piercing eyes locking onto yours.

“What are you standing there for? Get in,” he said, his voice as cold and detached as ever. The words weren’t angry, just empty.

For a moment, you wanted to say something. You wanted to tell him you didn’t care about the car, or the clothes, or any of it. You just wanted him to love you the way you needed. But you knew he wouldn’t. He never did.