**A Gift with a Hint of Heartache**
Natalie and her husband, Gregory, were finishing dinner in the kitchen. The evening was quiet, the kettle cooling on the stove, and an early autumn breeze drifted through the window. Then, out of nowhere, the phone rang. Gregory glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
“Wonder who needs me at this hour?” he muttered.
“Answer it and find out,” Natalie smiled, brushing it off.
Gregory stood, stepping into the hallway. Minutes later, he returned—pale, his expression hollow, as if he’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, he had been married. To Irene, his first wife, who’d given birth to a little girl—Emily. But within two years of their child’s arrival, the marriage crumbled. Irene snapped constantly, berating him for everything—his salary, his time, his so-called “lack of effort.”
He tried. For Emily, for the family. Some said Irene had postnatal depression—that she should see a doctor. But Gregory knew the truth: she’d been like this *before* Emily. It had just gotten worse.
She never smiled. Not once. And when she played with Emily, it wasn’t love—it was duty. Every time Gregory saw it, his heart twisted.
When he desperately suggested therapy, Irene exploded.
“What, you think I’m *mental*?”
That was the last straw. He filed for divorce. Irene, spiteful to the end, took Emily and vanished—no forwarding address, no child support requests. Just gone.
He searched, but the weight of those bitter memories wore him down. Eventually, he gave up, convincing himself Emily was better off without him. Oh, how wrong he’d been…
Irene never forgave. Not him, not life. Her bitterness festered, poisoning everything—including Emily.
The girl grew up in a house without holidays, hugs, or happiness. She first heard of birthdays in nursery.
“Mum, James had a birthday today! He got a toy car! Will I get a present?”
“No,” Irene cut in. “*I* gave birth to you. *I* should get the celebration. Stop asking foolish questions.”
No Christmas. No laughter. Sweets were a luxury. Even cartoons were frowned upon. Life was grey, tense—and no one knew little Emily secretly dreamed of one day buying herself a *whole bag* of sweets.
Neighbours avoided Irene. They whispered, *”There’s something off about her.”* And, as it turned out, they were right.
One day, Irene fell ill. She distrusted doctors, calling for an ambulance too late. They took her, making no promises. Before leaving, she gave a neighbour Emily’s father’s name—Gregory Lockwood—and the city where he lived.
Emily stayed with the neighbour. Quiet, withdrawn, she didn’t understand her mother wasn’t coming back.
Social services found Gregory quickly. He’d been married to Natalie for six months. Hearing he could bring his daughter home, he didn’t hesitate.
“I’m going. I *have* to get her,” he told Natalie.
“Of course. I’ll come with you, if you want. Or stay behind if needed. But you *have* to be there for her.”
Emily didn’t remember her father. She was terrified—what if he was worse than her mum? But when Gregory walked in, holding a giant stuffed cat and a whole *bag* of sweets, her eyes lit up.
Sugar. Warmth. Kindness. Her tiny heart decided: a bad man wouldn’t bring sweets.
While she played with her new toy, the neighbour filled Gregory in about Irene. He listened, fists clenched, rage and regret swelling in his chest. *Why did I give up? Why didn’t I fight harder?*
Within days, paperwork was sorted. Emily moved in. The next morning, over breakfast, Gregory asked:
“Your birthday’s coming up. What would you like?”
The girl froze.
“I… don’t know. I’ve never had a birthday before. We didn’t celebrate.”
His spoon clattered onto the table.
“*What?* Why not?”
“Mum said I didn’t *deserve* it. That being born wasn’t *my* achievement.”
Gregory stood abruptly, walking out. Natalie followed. He leaned against the kitchen counter, face in his hands.
“She asked for *sweets*. Just *sweets*, Nat. Things every kid should *have*. God, how did I let this happen?”
“Don’t blame yourself. What matters is she’s *home* now. With *us*,” Natalie whispered, hugging him. “We’ll give her everything—even the things she never had.”
A week later, their house was a wonderland. Balloons, fairy lights, the smell of fresh cake. Emily woke up—certain she was dreaming. Decorations, a candlelit cake, hugs, laughter.
And, for the first time, *she* laughed too.
At the fair, she rode carousels, ate candyfloss, opened presents. Seven of them—one for every year without joy.
Gregory cried in the car while Natalie rocked a sleepy Emily against her shoulder.
“I’m *never* letting her go again,” he said. “She’s my chance to make things right.”
A month passed. Emily ran through the house with Natalie, giggling, calling her *”Auntie Nat,”* helping bake biscuits.
Then, one morning, over toast, she suddenly asked:
“Can I call you *Mum*?”
Natalie nearly dropped her teacup.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she whispered, hugging her tight.
And in that moment, Gregory knew—his family was finally *whole*. And light had returned to their home.
