**A Gift Laced with Sorrow**
Emily and her husband, Oliver, were having dinner in the kitchen. The evening was quiet, the kettle cooling on the stove as an early autumn breeze drifted through the window. Then, without warning, the phone rang. Oliver glanced at the screen—unknown number.
“Who could possibly need me at this hour?” he muttered.
“Answer it and find out,” Emily smiled, not thinking much of it.
Oliver stood and stepped into the hallway. Moments later, he returned—pale, his gaze hollow, as though he’d seen something beyond the edges of ordinary life.
“What’s wrong, Ollie?” Emily rose, alarmed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Em…” His voice was barely there. “I have a daughter. And I need to bring her home.”
Once, he had another family. His first wife, Victoria, had given him a little girl—Sophie. But two years after her birth, their marriage crumbled. Victoria raged at him—his salary wasn’t enough, he was never around, he “didn’t help.”
He tried. For Sophie. For the family. Some said Victoria had postnatal depression. That she needed help. But Oliver knew—she had always been like this. Only worse now.
She never smiled. Not even when playing with Sophie—it wasn’t affection, but duty. It made something inside him clench every time.
When he desperately suggested therapy, she exploded.
“What, you think I’m mad?”
That was the last straw. He filed for divorce. And Victoria, to spite him, vanished with Sophie. No address. No child support. Gone.
He searched for a while, but the memories of their arguments weighed too much. Eventually, he gave up. Convinced himself Sophie was better off without him. He never realized how wrong he was.
Victoria never forgave. Not him, not life. The bitterness festered, poisoning everything—Sophie too.
Sophie grew up in a house without birthdays, without hugs, without joy. She first heard of celebrations at nursery.
“Mum, it’s Ben’s birthday today! He got a toy car! Will I get a present?”
“No,” Victoria snapped. “I was the one who gave birth. I should be celebrated. Don’t ask stupid questions.”
No Father Christmas. No laughter. Sweets were a luxury. Even cartoons were frowned upon. Life was grey and tense, and no one knew little Sophie dreamed in secret: one day, she’d buy herself an entire bag of sweets.
Neighbours avoided Victoria. They whispered, “There’s something wrong with her.” They were right.
One day, Victoria fell ill. She didn’t trust doctors—by the time she called an ambulance, it was too late. They took her away, making no promises. Before leaving, she gave a neighbour Oliver’s name and town.
Sophie stayed with that woman. Quiet, withdrawn, not grasping that her mother wouldn’t return.
Social services found Oliver quickly. He’d been married to Emily for six months. When they told him he had a daughter waiting to be claimed, he didn’t hesitate.
“I’m going. She’s coming home with me,” he told Emily.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll go with you if you want. Or stay, if you need. But she belongs with you.”
Sophie didn’t remember her father. She feared he might be worse than her mother. But when Oliver walked in—not empty-handed, but with a giant stuffed bear and a bag of sweets—something flickered in her eyes.
Sugar. Warmth. Kindness. Her tiny heart decided: a bad man wouldn’t bring sweets.
While she clung to the bear, the neighbour told Oliver about Victoria. His fists clenched. Guilt sat heavy in his chest. *Why did I give up? Why didn’t I fight?*
Within days, the paperwork was done. Sophie came home. The next morning, Oliver asked over breakfast:
“Your birthday’s coming up. What would you like?”
Sophie blinked. “I don’t know. I’ve never had presents. We didn’t celebrate…”
His fork clattered. “What? Why?”
“Mum said I didn’t earn it. That being born wasn’t my achievement.”
Oliver pushed away from the table and left. Emily followed. He stood in the kitchen, hands pressed to his face.
“She asked for… just sweets. Bloody *sweets*, Em. The bare minimum a child should have. How did I let this happen?”
“Stop punishing yourself,” Emily whispered, holding him. “She’s home now. With you. With us. We’ll give her everything she’s missed.”
A week later, the house was a fairy tale. Balloons, fairy lights, the smell of baking. Sophie turned seven. She woke up, thinking she was dreaming. Her room was decorated, a candlelit cake on the table. Arms hugged her, voices laughed, wished her joy. And she laughed back.
For the first time.
At the park, she rode the carousel, ate candyfloss, opened presents. Seven—one for every year she’d lived without happiness.
Oliver cried in the car while Emily rocked a drowsy Sophie against her shoulder.
“I’ll never let her go again,” he said. “She’s my chance to make things right.”
A month passed. Sophie ran through the house with Emily, giggling, calling her “Auntie Em,” helping with cooking.
A year later, at breakfast, she suddenly asked:
“Can I call you Mum?”
Emily nearly dropped her teacup.
“Of course, love,” she whispered, wrapping her in a fierce hug.
And in that moment, Oliver knew—his family was whole. Light had returned to their home.
