Father of the bride speech examples that don't sound copied

The first word Claire ever read out loud was STOP.

She was four, in the back seat of our old Buick, and she shouted it so loud that I stopped. In the middle of the intersection. Her mother has never let me forget it.

I'm Paul, Claire's dad. Diane and I want to thank every one of you for being here, and Noah's family most of all, for driving up from Tucson and making us feel like we've known you for years.

After that, every car ride was a reading lesson. YIELD. MERGE. SLOW CHILDREN, which she thought was very rude. By the time she was ten, she was reading the paper map on our road trips, and I stopped needing to know where we were going. She always did.

When she turned sixteen, I taught her to drive on the same streets. At the very first stop sign, she came to a full stop, turned to me, and said, "See? I listen." She has not listened to me since.

She still knows where she's going. At twenty-two she moved to Seattle with two suitcases and no job, and she called us from the airport to say she had a plan. She did. She usually does.

Noah, the first time you came to dinner, you got lost on the way. You called Claire, and I listened to her talk you through every turn from memory, street by street. You didn't argue with her once. You just did what she said. It took me about twenty years to learn that.

Claire, you've been reading the signs for this family since you were four. Your mother and I couldn't be prouder of you.

Please raise your glasses to Claire and Noah. And Noah, if she ever says stop, stop.

When James came to ask for my blessing, I was ready. I had twelve questions. On cue cards.

My wife told me not to use them. I used them.

Question one: "What are your intentions?" He said, "To marry your daughter, if that's all right with you." Fair enough. Question four: "Can you change a tyre?" He said yes, and then he asked if I'd like him to show me, because Poppy had told him about the time I rang the AA for a flat on our own driveway.

I'm Graham, Poppy's dad, and I'd like it on record that the tyre was very flat.

By question nine I'd run out of tough ones, so I asked him what he'd do if Poppy was having a rotten day. He didn't answer straight away. Then he said he'd make her a cheese toastie, cut into triangles, because the squares don't count.

Nobody told him that. He'd just noticed.

I put the last three cards back in my pocket.

Poppy, you've picked a man who pays attention. James, the job's yours. Question twelve was going to be, "When can you start?"

Ladies and gentlemen, would you please be upstanding and raise your glasses to Poppy and James.

Carol and I did the math last night. You came here from eleven states and two countries, and one of you drove fourteen hours with a toddler. Thank you. We know what that took.

I'm Frank, Rosie's dad, and my job tonight is to welcome you, so welcome. Will's family, especially: you've been part of ours for a while now, and tonight it's official.

When Rosie was seven, she organized the whole neighborhood into a lemonade stand. Not one stand. Four. She had a map, a schedule, and a kid named Brian on cups. By noon she'd made forty dollars, and she gave every cent to the family down the street whose basement had flooded that spring. She didn't tell us. We found out from their mom.

That's Rosie. She's the most organized person in any room, and she's always organizing for somebody else.

Will, I'll tell you when I knew. Last Thanksgiving, Rosie was running the kitchen like air traffic control, and you walked in, took one look, and asked her for a job. Not "Can I help?" A job. She gave you the potatoes. You peeled every single one and never once tried to do it your way.

Rosie, look around this room. Eleven states and two countries. You organized all of us too.

Please raise your glasses to Rosie and Will.

For twenty-six years, Ellen kept a list on our fridge of things Abby said that made her laugh.

It started when Abby was three and told the pediatrician she was "mostly fine, but tired of everybody." By the end it ran to four pages, held up with a magnet shaped like a lobster. I'm Steve, Abby's dad. I brought the list tonight, because Ellen would want to be part of this, and this is the best way I know to bring her.

I won't read all of it. Just the last one Ellen wrote down, three years ago, from her hospital bed. Abby had been reading to her all afternoon, and when the nurse asked Abby if she needed a break, Abby said, "No, it's my turn."

That's our daughter. She takes her turn.

Sean, you've taken yours too. When Abby couldn't face packing up her mom's things, you did it with her, one box every weekend, for four months, and you never once asked when it would be done.

Abby, I'm adding one to the list tonight. This morning you told me, "Dad, don't make everyone cry." Sweetheart, I think it's too late.

Please raise your glasses to Abby and Sean. And to Ellen.

The first time I came over for dinner, Maya was eight, and she told me I wasn't allowed to sit in the big chair. That was her dad's chair. I could sit on the step stool.

I sat on the step stool. For about a year.

I'm Ray, Maya's stepdad. Her dad, Mark, is here tonight too, and between the two of us she's had twice the embarrassing car rides and twice the lectures about curfew. She'll tell you it was too many of both.

The chair rule held until she was nine and broke her arm on a trampoline. I drove her to the ER, and on the way home, still in the cast, she said, "You can have the big chair on Thursdays." Thursdays were a big deal. I still have Thursdays.

Theo, the first time Maya brought you home, she pointed at a chair and said, "That one's yours." I noticed how fast that happened. It took me a year.

Maya, thank you for letting me in, one Thursday at a time.

Please raise your glasses to Maya and Theo.

Good evening, everyone. I'm Rick, Hailey's dad, and I promised Hailey I'd keep this to one minute, so her mom is timing me.

Hailey, when you were little you'd fall asleep in the car, and I'd drive around the block a few extra times so I didn't have to wake you. I've been doing some version of that ever since, trying to make the good parts last a little longer. Tonight included.

Evan, last winter you drove three hours in the snow to bring her soup from the diner she grew up on, because she'd mentioned once that she missed it.

To Hailey and Evan. How'd I do on time?