*Late Motherhood: How Spring Reminded Her of a Sin She Couldn’t Forget*
Angela never really wanted a second child. With Max, she already had a son—a lively seven-year-old—and the thought of returning to sleepless nights, nappies, colic, and tantrums didn’t appeal to her. Besides, her career was finally taking off—travel, opportunities, people who made life light and exciting… and *not* family-like. But the pregnancy happened anyway. Unexpectedly. At the worst possible time, as these things often do.
Max, however, was quick to say he wanted a girl. “Might be easier on us,” he joked. Angela nodded, but inside—anger, fear, frustration. Then the girl was born—tiny, fair, with cornflower-blue eyes and a button nose—and for the first time, Angela faltered. Something inside her twisted. But as if mocking that flicker of feeling, the doctors delivered the news: the newborn had a congenital heart defect. Serious. Treatment. Surgery.
This wasn’t part of her plan. Not at all. Everything she’d worked for could collapse. Gym sessions, work parties, holidays in Spain with her mates, her career—and now *this*? No. Not now. Not her.
Max listened—then gave in. Shrugged. Together, they made a decision they wouldn’t even say out loud to each other. They told family and friends the girl had died.
At the children’s home, the little girl with the blue eyes was taken in by Mary. She’d worked there for twenty-five years. You’d think the years of heartbreak and shattered little lives would’ve hardened her. But no. Every abandoned child left its mark. Especially this one. So quiet. So *needy*. She looked at Mary as if searching for someone to call her own.
Mary started spending every free minute with the baby. The girl smiled at her, reached out, babbled in response to affection. And Mary couldn’t take it anymore. She talked to her husband.
“John, I can’t leave her there.”
“She’ll need treatment. Can we manage?”
“We’ll manage. She’s ours. Let’s name her Hope.”
They adopted her. They were nearing sixty, health wasn’t what it used to be, and money was tight. John worked dawn till dusk at the farm. Mary shuttled Hope between hospitals, tests, rehabilitation centres. They slept three hours a night. Ate whatever they could. But one smile from Hope, and John looked twenty years younger.
Hope grew up kind, sensitive, full of life. She helped around the house, loved people. At five, she carried corn for their elderly neighbour: “Granny Doris, I’ll take two cobs—it’ll be easier for you!” And she marched ahead, clutching the heavy cobs like crowns.
When the surgery came, the whole village prayed. People helped however they could—money, food, words. The operation was a success. Hope lived. More than that—she *beat* it.
She grew up. Beautiful. Smart. Top grades, university, holidays back home where love and homemade pies waited.
One April day, Hope walked through the park. Warmth, sunlight through the branches, birds chirping, earth smelling of life. She thought of the coming summer, visiting Mum and Dad, helping in the garden, sipping herbal tea in the evening while Mum told stories.
Then—*thump*. A plush rabbit landed at her feet. Hope looked up—a woman and a four-year-old boy sat nearby. She picked it up.
“You lost your bunny.”
“Don’t want him! He’s sick! He’s gonna *die*!” the boy shouted, angry and scared.
“Don’t mind him,” the woman muttered. “He’s ill. Born with a heart defect. His parents… wouldn’t step up. I had to take him. But it’s hard.”
Hope studied her. The woman was well-kept, polished. But her eyes… Empty. Dead. Like winter lived in them, despite the spring. Something in that look stirred Hope.
So she spoke. Told her she’d been just like that boy. That her *real* mum saved her. That love could do anything. That they’d won—and this woman could too.
The woman sat silent. Her face paled with every word. Because standing before her was a girl with *her* face. *Her* eyes. Those same cornflower-blue ones. The eyes she’d once walked away from.
It was *her*. Her daughter. No other explanation.
“Can’t be…” she whispered.
“It can,” Hope said firmly. “You just have to believe. I do. You should too.”
Hope walked on. Bright. Happy. Alive.
Angela stayed. Frozen. Eyes burning. Soul tearing. She wanted to scream, run after her, hold her, beg forgiveness. But… did she have the right?
No. She’d walked away. Out of fear. Convenience. Then her life fell apart. Max left her for another woman. Her son grew cold, distant. Now she was raising a grandson even his parents didn’t love. Alone. No help. No love. No hope.
And now—spring. Now—the girl she’d once let go of. A stranger, yet hers. Happy. Saved—by someone else.
Angela didn’t follow her.
Because she knew: love wasn’t a *right*. It was a gift. One she’d thrown away.
All she had left now was a shadow. The shadow of her daughter. And her own late remorse.
