**A Gift with a Hint of Pain**
We were having dinner in the kitchen—Natalie and I, Gregory. The evening was quiet, the kettle cooling on the stove, the early autumn breeze drifting through the window. Then the phone rang. I glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
*Who could possibly be calling at this hour?* I muttered.
“Answer it, and you’ll find out,” Natalie smiled, barely paying attention.
I stood and stepped into the hallway. A few minutes later, I returned—pale, my gaze blank, as if I’d seen something that shattered the ordinary.
“Greg, what’s wrong?” Natalie rose, alarmed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Natalie… I have a daughter. And I need to bring her home.”
Once, I’d had another family. Eleanor, my first wife, gave birth to our little girl—Emily. But within two years, the marriage was crumbling. Eleanor was always snapping, blaming me for everything—not earning enough, not spending enough time with her, “never helping.”
I tried, for Emily’s sake, for our family. People said Eleanor might’ve had postnatal depression—that she should see a doctor. But I knew the truth. She’d always been like this. Only worse now.
She never smiled. Not once. And when she played with Emily, it wasn’t with love, just obligation. My chest tightened every time I saw it.
When I desperately suggested therapy, she exploded.
“Are you saying I’m *mad*?!”
That was the final straw. I filed for divorce. And Eleanor, out of spite, took Emily away—vanished to another town, left no address, never asked for child support.
I searched, but the memories of those bitter arguments wore me down. Eventually, I gave up, convinced Emily was better off with her mother. How wrong I was…
Eleanor never forgave. Not me, not life. The bitterness inside her poisoned everything. Even Emily.
She grew up in a house without holidays, without hugs, without joy. She first heard of birthdays in nursery.
“Mum, it’s Andrew’s birthday today! He got a toy car! Will I get a present?”
“No,” Eleanor cut her off. “*I* was the one who gave birth. *I* should be celebrated. Don’t ask stupid things again.”
No Christmas, no laughter, no sweets—even cartoons were frowned upon. Life was grey, tense. And no one knew little Emily dreamed, secretly, of buying herself a whole bag of sweets one day.
Neighbours avoided Eleanor. They called her “not quite right.” And they were right.
One day, Eleanor felt ill. She never trusted doctors, and called for an ambulance too late. They took her away, making no promises. Before leaving, she gave a neighbour my name, my surname, my city.
Emily stayed with that woman—quiet, withdrawn, not understanding her mother wasn’t coming back.
Social services found me quickly. I’d been married to Natalie for half a year. When I heard I could bring Emily home, I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m going. I have to get her,” I told Natalie.
“Of course. I’ll come with you, if you want. Or stay if you need me to. But you should be with her.”
Emily didn’t remember me, and she was afraid—what if this was worse than before? But when I walked through the door, holding a giant teddy bear and a bag of sweets, her eyes lit up.
Sweetness. Warmth. Kindness. Her little heart decided: a bad man wouldn’t bring sweets.
While she played, the neighbour told me about Eleanor. I listened, fists clenched, my throat tight. *Why did I give up? Why didn’t I fight harder?*
Within days, the paperwork was done. Emily came home. The next morning, at breakfast, I asked:
“Your birthday’s soon. What would you like?”
She just stared, confused.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a present. We didn’t celebrate…”
I nearly dropped my spoon.
“What? Why?”
“Mum said I didn’t deserve it. That being born wasn’t *my* achievement.”
I got up, walked out. Natalie followed me. I leaned on the kitchen counter, hands over my face.
“She just wanted sweets. *Sweets*, Natalie. Something every child should have. God, how did I let this happen?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” she whispered, holding me. “She’s home now. With you. With us. We’ll give her everything—even what she never had.”
A week later, the house was like a fairy tale. Balloons, ribbons, the smell of cake. Emily turned seven. She woke up, blinking, sure she was dreaming. The room was decorated, a cake with candles on the table. Hugs, laughter—and, for the first time ever, *her* laughter.
At the fairground, she rode the carousel, ate candyfloss, opened presents—seven, one for each year without happiness.
I cried in the car while Natalie rocked Emily to sleep on her shoulder.
“I’ll never let her go again,” I said. “She’s my chance to make things right.”
A month later, Emily raced through the house with Natalie, giggling, calling her “Auntie Nat,” helping her cook.
A year later, at breakfast, she asked quietly:
“Can I call you Mum?”
Natalie nearly dropped her cup.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling her close.
And in that moment, I knew—my family was whole again. And the light had come back home.
