**Diary Entry**
It’s been years now since we finally moved into our dream home—a spacious three-bedroom house in Surrey. Our old two-bedroom flat in London had grown too cramped with two growing boys, and my husband’s business had taken a turn for the better. The move wasn’t just a change of scenery—it was the start of something new. Next door lived a young couple, the Harrisons, with their little girl, and over time, we became inseparable. Celebrating Christmas together, weekend trips to the countryside, the children laughing and playing as if they’d known each other forever.
Then life took a cruel turn. Alex, their father, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. It felt impossible—he was always so full of life, cracking jokes, always the first to suggest a Sunday roast at the pub. His wife, Emily, my closest friend, crumbled before my eyes. She withdrew, lost weight, barely spoke. I did everything I could—bringing her tea, forcing a laugh, assuring her it would be alright, though deep down, we all knew the truth.
For months, we stood by them. Took out loans, brought meals, took their daughter, Lily, to the park. Then, just like that, Alex was gone. The grief swallowed Emily whole. At first, I barely left her side, but soon, she pushed everyone away—even Lily, who now wandered over to ours after school, hungry for food, for warmth, for a moment of peace.
One morning, Lily turned up at our door, quietly asking for breakfast. My stomach twisted. I went upstairs and found Emily passed out on the floor, the flat reeking of vodka, takeaway boxes strewn about. The fridge was empty. I tried to reason with her, begged her to get help—it was useless. Meanwhile, Lily became a fixture in our home. My husband and I had always wanted a daughter, and somehow, life had brought her to us.
Then came the day I heard shouting from the street. Emily’s voice, slurred and furious.
*”Lily, get your coat on—now!”*
*”No! I want to stay with Aunt Rose! She’s waiting for me!”* Lily sobbed.
I ran downstairs just as Emily, unsteady on her feet, yanked Lily’s arm.
*”Emily, stop! You’re in no state!”*
*”She’s my child! I’ll do what I want!”* she snapped.
Then, in a burst of rage, she shoved Lily toward me.
*”Take her! Do whatever you want—I don’t need her anymore!”*
Lily clung to me, shaking. I held her tight and whispered, *”You’re safe now, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”*
After that, Lily stayed with us for good. The courts stripped Emily of custody, and we adopted her within the year. We left Surrey eventually, moved to a quieter town. The boys grew up, built their own lives, and Lily went off to university in Cambridge—where she met James. We wrote, we called, we visited.
Then one morning, I woke to the last words I expected:
*”Mum, wake up—we’re home!”*
There she was, beaming in the doorway, suitcases in hand, James beside her.
*”Just for the weekend?”* I asked, already crying.
*”No. For good. We’re buying a house here—where I grew up.”*
*”You’ll stay with me, then! There’s plenty of room!”* I hugged her—then noticed her hand resting lightly on her stomach. *”Wait… are you—?”*
*”Four months,”* she whispered.
The tears came then, unstoppable. Our home filled with light again. When the baby arrived, I became a grandmother all over. The boys visit often, the house echoes with laughter—and when I look at them all, my daughter, my grandson, I know: fate made the right choice for us that day.
