**Diary Entry**
Years ago, we finally fulfilled our long-held dream—we moved into a spacious three-bedroom flat. Our old two-bedroom had grown cramped with our two sons, and my husband’s career was thriving. The new home wasn’t just a change of scenery; it was the start of an unexpected bond. Next door lived a young couple with their daughter, and over time, we grew so close we became like family. We celebrated holidays together, took weekend trips to the countryside, and our children laughed and played as if they’d known each other forever.
Everything seemed perfect until we received devastating news: our neighbour, James, had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. My husband and I were in disbelief—such a lively, cheerful man, and now this… His wife, Emily, my dearest friend, withered before my eyes, withdrawing into herself. I did what I could—offered comfort, told her it would be alright, cracked jokes to coax a smile. But the doctors held no hope.
For months, we supported them however possible. We took on debt, brought meals, took their daughter, Lily, out for walks. Then James passed. Just like that—a piece of our hearts torn away. Emily was numb with grief, a shadow of herself. I barely left her side in the weeks after the funeral. But soon, she began to pull away—locking herself in, avoiding us, though Lily still slipped over to our place to play, eat, or simply sit in quiet comfort.
One morning, Lily came to me, quietly asking for food. She was hungry. As she ate, my unease grew, and I went upstairs to check on Emily. The flat reeked of alcohol. She lay asleep on the floor, surrounded by clutter, the fridge empty. I pleaded with her, but it was useless. She was spiralling, and Lily increasingly sought refuge with us. I’d stroke her hair, promise to keep her safe, and in my heart, I knew—she was already ours. My husband and I had always wanted a daughter. Fate had brought her to us.
One evening, I stepped onto the balcony for air and heard raised voices below. Emily’s, slurred and angry.
*”Lily, get your coat on—now!”*
*”No! I want to stay with Auntie Margaret! She’s waiting for me!”* Lily sobbed.
I raced downstairs. Emily, clearly drunk, was yanking Lily’s arm.
*”Emily, stop! You can barely stand!”* I shouted.
*”She’s my child! I’ll do what I like!”* she snarled.
*”You’re in no state—let her go!”*
Suddenly, Emily wrenched her hand free, shoved Lily toward me, and screamed:
*”Take her! Do whatever you want! I don’t need her anymore!”*
Lily wept uncontrollably. I held her tight, whispering, *”I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s going to be alright.”*
From that day, Lily stayed with us. The courts soon stripped Emily of parental rights. We filed for adoption, and months later, we became her legal parents. We moved to a new town. Our sons grew up, started families, and Lily went off to university, where she met her future husband. We stayed in touch, calling, writing.
Then one morning, I woke to words I never expected to hear:
*”Mum, wake up—we’re here!”*
I sat up, blinking. Lily stood in the doorway, radiant, her husband beside her, suitcases in hand.
*”Just for a visit?”* I asked, tears welling.
*”No. For good. We want to buy a house here—my hometown.”*
*”Stay with me! There’s plenty of room!”* I hugged her—then noticed her hand resting gently on her stomach. *”Are you…?”*
*”Yes. Four months along, Mum…”*
Tears spilled over. Our home filled with new light, new life. When the baby arrived, I became a grandmother again. My sons visited, laughter echoing through the house. And as I watched my family—my daughter, my grandchild—I knew: fate had made the choice for us all. And it was the right one.
