**Diary Entry – 12th June**
The word *return* is something we usually hear in shops—if something doesn’t fit, isn’t right, or doesn’t work, we send it back. People get used to the idea that if something doesn’t meet expectations, it can simply be handed over again. But when that *something* is a living, breathing child, it becomes something else entirely—a heartless tragedy that chills the blood.
Emily never knew her birth family until she didn’t, anyway. From her earliest memories, there was only the sterile cot, the white walls of the orphanage, nurses with tired eyes. Then, one day, light burst into her grey world. New parents came for her, took her home, promised everything would be different. She was quiet, a little withdrawn, but she tried her hardest—she learned where things belonged in the house, said *please* and *thank you*, kept her room tidy, stayed out of the way. She didn’t know what they expected, but she was terrified of getting it wrong. Terrified of going back.
It wasn’t enough. Soon, her new family decided she wasn’t *what they wanted*. She didn’t smile on command, didn’t fling her arms around them, didn’t act like a doll. Emily overheard them talking: *What do we do with her? She’s like stone—no joy in her. She doesn’t feel like ours. We’ll return her.* That word—*return*—hit like a slap.
So, like a faulty toy, the girl was sent back to the orphanage. No explanation. Just driven there and left. If it had been the first time, she might have understood—that’s how life works. But this was the *second* rejection in one short childhood.
Emily didn’t blame them. She was sure it was her fault. Not the people who’d promised a family and changed their minds—*her*. She must have been bad. Wrong. A disappointment.
Meanwhile, Margaret—the woman who had once taken Emily in—was drowning. She and her husband had decided to foster. He’d supported her at first, but then everything changed. After the divorce, money vanished. Tears, sleepless nights, desperate calls to social services. With nothing left to give, Margaret brought Emily back. Her heart shattered, but there had been no choice.
After that, she didn’t *live*—she existed. Her soul stayed in that orphanage hallway, where she’d left the girl she’d already learned to love. Then, one day, when all seemed lost, she pawned everything—gold, electronics, even her grandmother’s ring. She found a cheap flat, took a gruelling but well-paid job, and ran back to the orphanage.
Margaret trembled with fear. *She’ll hate me. She’ll turn away.* But when Emily saw her in the doorway, she burst into tears and threw herself into Margaret’s arms. *I waited. I knew you’d come.*
They’ve been together ever since. It isn’t easy—Margaret works long hours, money’s tight, sometimes it’s a choice between food and bills. But every morning, Emily still peeks into her room, checking: *Are you here?*
Margaret cries at night, but she doesn’t see it as weakness. It’s grief. Shame. She’ll never forgive herself for that day at the orphanage. But she swears it’ll never happen again. Even if she’s penniless. Because Emily isn’t a thing—not a faulty product, not a pair of shoes to be sent back. She’s a person. Small, fragile, and carrying too much hurt for someone so young.
The world is cruel. There are people who treat children like unwanted goods. But Margaret won’t let that be Emily’s story ever again.
Now, they live simply. Emily smiles sometimes—laughs, starts sketching. She wants to be an artist. And Margaret? She’s learning to dream—of a little house, a better job, a life where no child ever feels discarded.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t meant to be conditional. Some wounds don’t heal quickly, but they *can* heal—if you’re patient enough to stay.
