**Diary Entry**
I never thought I’d hear those words from her. Not after everything.
“Emily… I need to speak with you honestly. I can feel my time is near. You must know the truth. Even if you hate me for it afterwards,” Margaret whispered, her frail hand gripping mine.
I froze. “Emily”? Since the day I married her son, she’d only ever called me “that barren wretch,” “the useless wife,” or worse. Never my name, and certainly never tenderly. Now? A softness in her voice, tears in her eyes. Maybe death really does force a person to face the truth. Maybe, at the end, Margaret was finally seeking absolution.
I worked as a nurse in the very hospital where she’d been admitted after a severe heart attack. The doctors murmured quietly—her chances were slim. My ex-husband, Daniel, hadn’t visited in years. Whether he’d been here and missed me, or never came at all, I didn’t care. After he left, shattered my heart, and walked away from our life, I never wanted to hear his name again.
It had started with the pregnancy. I’d longed for a child, but Daniel was cold. He complained about money, called family a burden, said he’d be shackled with responsibility. I promised I’d work from home, that I wouldn’t be a weight—but he only waved me off. And his mother? Margaret looked at me with disdain, insinuating I’d “trapped him” with the pregnancy.
When the time came, the doctors insisted on a C-section—though there was no medical reason. I tried calling Margaret—she was head of maternity, after all. Maybe she could intervene. But she didn’t answer. After the operation, they told me, “The baby didn’t survive.” It was like a knife to the chest. My daughter—the one I’d already named Lily—was gone. That day, I stopped believing in justice, in love, in anything.
Our marriage crumbled. Daniel blamed my “weak constitution,” my “failure as a mother.” His mother backed him, twisting the knife deeper. In the end, the divorce papers said it was all my fault. I was left alone, hollow, broken.
And now, years later, Margaret lay in that same hospital, needing care. No son. No new wife by her side. Age had made her disposable even to her own family.
“Don’t say that, Margaret! You’ll pull through!” I protested, but she only shook her head weakly.
“No… It’s over. You know it is. But you—you’re a good woman. I was wrong not to stand by you. Wrong to side with my son… Emily, you must know… The C-section wasn’t just a medical decision.”
My heart stopped. I’d always suspected something wasn’t right. But to hear it now—
“Your baby… she didn’t die. She was taken. Your daughter… my granddaughter… given away to a wealthy family.”
The room spun. My legs buckled. I clutched the bed frame to keep from falling. The woman before me wasn’t just a patient anymore—she was the thief who’d stolen my child.
“Why?” My voice shook, strained to breaking.
“Daniel didn’t want children. You knew that. His career was just starting. He was afraid a child would hold him back, that you’d demand child support if he left. He convinced me… I arranged it. Made you believe she was gone. I did it—for his future. Wanted him to succeed. And now… facing death… I see the guilt I carry. Can you ever forgive me?”
“How could you?!” The words tore from me. Tears burned, but I barely felt them. “Where is she? Where’s my daughter?”
“In the drawer… a notebook… the first page has the address,” she whispered. “But Emily… he’s powerful now. He won’t give her up. He’ll protect his family at any cost.”
“We’ll see about that,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
My hands trembled as I yanked open the drawer and snatched the notebook. Tearing out the page, I turned and stormed out without looking back.
“Emily… forgive me…” her ragged voice followed me.
“God might,” I muttered, not stopping.
I couldn’t stay near her another second. Not when she’d destroyed my dreams, my motherhood, my happiness. Only one thought consumed me now: finding my daughter.
Five and a half years. She’d be so grown. Alive. Tears blurred my vision as I rushed to the hospital office, muttering something about an emergency. The drive to the address passed in a haze. And then—there I stood, staring at the gates of a grand manor, reality crashing down. I couldn’t just walk in and take her. This would shatter the little girl’s world. She had another life now, another mother. But just to see her… just once…
A man met me at the door. Tall, handsome, but his gaze was ice. From the garden behind him, a child’s laughter rang out—my heart lurched.
“Are you here about the nanny position?” he asked, studying me.
“Nanny?” I echoed, my eyes darting past him toward the sound.
“Unless you’re not?” His frown deepened.
“Stephen?” I whispered. He nodded. “I’m not here as a nanny. I’m here for my daughter.”
His face paled, jaw tightening. He looked at me like he wanted to crush me where I stood. But I didn’t back down. “It’s a long story… Please, just listen.”
Tears streamed as I told him everything—how Daniel, the man I’d loved, had convinced his mother to rid us of our child, how they’d made me believe Lily was dead. “I didn’t know… I thought she was gone. I was broken. But now—”
“I won’t give you Charlotte,” he cut in sharply. “She’s my life.”
Charlotte. The name I’d wanted for her. Fresh tears fell. My legs shook, but I steadied myself. He could throw me out, call security, the police—but he just stood there, silent.
“Come inside,” he finally said. “We’ll talk over tea.”
I nodded, though every part of me screamed to run to the child. Inside the lavish home, a pang of sorrow hit me—I could never give her this. The toys, the clothes, the life. Could I even make her happy? I glimpsed a playroom filled with dolls and expensive trinkets before Stephen spoke again.
“My wife couldn’t conceive. We’d given up hope… until the hospital called. Said there was a baby girl whose mother had abandoned her. We didn’t hesitate. The adoption was swift. Our home was full of joy. Then, when Charlotte was three, my wife died suddenly. A heart attack. Two and a half years later, I still wake up expecting her beside me. Charlotte asks when Mummy will come back from heaven. It’s agony. She waits for her mother—but not you.”
My heart shattered. I set down my teacup and stood. Through the window, I saw her—my mirror image. I ached to run to her, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
“You mentioned needing a nanny,” I said firmly.
“A nanny, yes. Not you.” He shook his head. “You couldn’t control yourself. What if you tried to take her?”
“Take her? No! I swear!” I nearly shouted. “I came here to bring her home… but I see now—this is her home. I won’t ruin her world. Just let me be near her. Let me be her nanny.”
“I’ll give you my answer in two days,” he said curtly.
Those two days were torture. I fought the urge to storm into a police station, to demand my child back. But I knew—that wasn’t the way.
When Stephen called, his voice was tight. He agreed—on conditions. I’d sign a contract swearing never to tell Charlotte I was her mother. I’d undergo psychological evaluation. A DNA test. Only then would he hire me. I agreed without hesitation. I already knew she was mine. The resemblance was undeniable. But he needed proof.
When the results confirmed the truth, when the psychologist assured him I could restrain myself, Stephen handed me the contract. I didn’t read it—just signed. That same day, he introduced Charlotte to her “new nanny.”
For me, it was heaven.
At first, I worked shifts. But within a month, Stephen insisted I quit the hospital and move in.
“Charlotte adores you,” he said. “She’s drawn to you. It’s better for her if you’re here full-time.”
I’d have worked for free, but he insisted on payment, citing the contract. I cooked, cleaned, spent every possible moment with her. Every smile tore at my heart—but I held back. I couldn’t call her “my love” or hug her the way I longed to.
Eight months passed. Stephen began to trust me. He saw how I cared for her, how deeply I loved her, and he knew—
