**A Gift Bitter-Sweet**
We were having dinner in the kitchen—Emily and I, Gregory. The evening was quiet, the kettle cooling on the hob, the air through the window crisp with early autumn. Then the phone rang. I glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
“Who’d be calling at this hour?” I muttered.
“Answer it and find out,” Emily smiled, brushing it off.
I stepped into the hallway. A few minutes later, I returned—pale, hollow-eyed, as if I’d seen something beyond ordinary life.
“What’s wrong, Greg?” Emily stood, alarmed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Em… I have a daughter. And I need to bring her home.”
Years ago, I had another family. Sarah, my first wife, gave birth to my little girl, Lily. But before Lily turned two, our marriage was crumbling. Sarah snapped constantly, blaming me for everything—not earning enough, never being there, “never helping.”
I tried—for Lily, for us. Friends said it might be post-natal depression. “Get her help.” But the truth was, Sarah had always been like that. Motherhood just made it worse.
She never smiled. Not once. Even with Lily, it wasn’t love—just duty. My stomach knotted watching her.
When I begged her to try therapy, she exploded.
“You think I’m mad, is that it?”
That was the last straw. I filed for divorce. Sarah, out of spite, took Lily to another town. No address. No child support requests. Just gone.
I searched. But the memories of Sarah’s venom wore me down. Eventually, I gave up. Told myself Lily was better off without me. God, how wrong I was…
Sarah never forgave me—or life. Her bitterness poisoned everything. Even Lily.
Lily grew up in a house without holidays, without hugs, without joy. She first heard of birthdays in nursery.
“Mum, it’s Tommy’s birthday today! He got a toy car! Will I get a present?”
“No,” Sarah spat. “I’m the one who gave birth. If anyone deserves gifts, it’s me. Don’t ask stupid questions again.”
No Christmas. No laughter. Sweets were luxury. Even cartoons were frowned upon. Lily’s world was grey, tense—and in secret, she dreamed of buying herself a whole bag of sweets one day.
Neighbours avoided Sarah. “There’s something not right about her,” they whispered. They were right.
One day, Sarah fell ill. She hated doctors, called the ambulance too late. They took her away, making no promises. Before leaving, she gave a neighbour my name and the town I lived in.
Lily stayed with that woman—quiet, withdrawn, not understanding her mum wouldn’t return.
Social services found me quickly. I’d been married to Emily for six months. When they said I could take my daughter home, I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m going. I’m bringing her back,” I told Emily.
“Of course. I’ll come with you. Or stay behind. But you *have* to be there for her.”
Lily didn’t remember me. She was afraid—what if I was worse than her mum? But when I walked in with a giant stuffed bear and a bag of sweets, her eyes lit up.
Sweetness. Warmth. Kindness. A child’s logic: bad people don’t bring sweets.
While she played, the neighbour told me about Sarah. I listened, fists clenched, a lump in my throat. *Why did I give up? Why didn’t I fight harder?*
Within days, the paperwork was done. Lily came home. The next morning at breakfast, I asked:
“Your birthday’s coming up. What would you like?”
She froze. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never had a present. We didn’t celebrate.”
My spoon clattered. “What? Why?”
“Mum said I didn’t deserve it. That being born wasn’t *my* achievement.”
I left the table. Emily followed. In the kitchen, I leaned on the counter, face in my hands.
“She asked for *sweets*, Em. Just sweets. Something every child should have. How did I let this happen?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” she whispered, hugging me. “She’s home now. With you. With *us*. We’ll give her everything—even the things she never had.”
A week later, the house was magic. Balloons, fairy lights, the smell of baking. Lily turned seven. She woke up thinking she was dreaming—the room decked, a cake with candles on the table. Hugs, laughter. And for the first time, *her* laughter too.
At the fair, she rode the carousel, ate candyfloss, opened *seven* gifts—one for each year without joy.
In the car, I cried while Emily rocked a sleepy Lily against her shoulder.
“I’ll never let her go again,” I said. “She’s my chance to make things right.”
A month later, Lily was racing through the house with Emily, giggling, calling her “Auntie Em,” helping bake biscuits.
One year on, at breakfast, she asked softly:
“Can I call you Mum?”
Emily nearly dropped her tea. “Of course, sweetheart,” she whispered, holding her tight.
And in that moment, I knew—my family was finally whole. The light was back in our home.
**Lesson learned:** Some wounds take years to heal. But love? Love can mend anything—if you let it.
