**A Gift Soured by Pain**
Natalie and her husband, Gregory, were having dinner in the kitchen. The evening was quiet, the kettle cooling on the stove, and the early autumn breeze drifted through the window. Then the phone rang. Gregory glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
“Who on earth would call at this hour?” he muttered.
“Answer it and find out,” Natalie smiled, unconcerned.
Gregory stepped into the hallway. A few minutes later, he returned—pale, eyes vacant, as if he’d seen something that shattered the ordinary.
“Greg, what’s wrong?” Natalie stood, alarmed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Natalie… I have a daughter. And I need to bring her home.”
Once, he had a family. His first wife, Irene, had given birth to a girl—Anna. But within two years of Anna’s birth, the marriage crumbled. Irene snapped at him constantly, blaming him for everything—his earnings, his time, his lack of help.
He tried—for Anna’s sake, for their family. Some said Irene had postnatal depression, that she needed help. But Gregory knew the truth: Irene had always been like this. Only now, it was worse.
She never smiled. Not even when playing with Anna—her care was obligation, not love. It twisted Gregory’s stomach to see it.
When he begged her to seek therapy, she exploded.
“So now I’m mad, am I?”
That was the last straw. He filed for divorce. In retaliation, Irene took Anna away—no forwarding address, no request for child support. Just gone.
He searched, but the weight of every bitter memory crushed him until he gave up. He told himself Anna was better off with her mother. Oh, how wrong he’d been.
Irene never forgave. Not him, not life. Bitterness poisoned her, and Anna too.
Anna grew up in a house without holidays, without hugs, without joy. She learned about birthdays from a classmate.
“Mum, it’s Andrew’s birthday today! He got a new toy car! Will I get a present?”
“No,” Irene snapped. “I’m the one who gave birth to you. If anyone should be celebrated, it’s me. Don’t ask stupid questions again.”
No Christmas. No laughter. Sweets were a luxury, cartoons frowned upon. Anna’s world was grey—until she secretly dreamed of buying herself a whole bag of sweets someday.
Neighbours avoided Irene. They whispered, “There’s something off about her.” And they were right.
One day, Irene fell ill. She didn’t trust doctors, so by the time she called an ambulance, it was too late. As they took her away, she gave a neighbour Gregory’s name—his city, his surname.
Anna stayed with that woman. Quiet, withdrawn, she didn’t understand her mother wouldn’t return.
Social services found Gregory quickly. He’d been married to Natalie for six months. When he heard he could reclaim his daughter, he didn’t hesitate.
“I’m going. I have to bring her home,” he told Natalie.
“Of course. I’ll come with you, if you want. Or stay behind. But she needs you.”
Anna didn’t remember her father. She was afraid—what if he was worse than her mother? But when Gregory walked in, carrying a giant teddy bear and a bag of sweets, her eyes lit up.
Sweets. Warmth. Kindness. Her little heart decided: a bad man wouldn’t bring chocolates.
As she played with her new toy, the neighbour told Gregory about Irene’s death. He listened, fists clenched, a knot in his throat. *God, why did I give up? Why didn’t I fight harder?*
The paperwork was settled within days. Anna came home. The next morning, over breakfast, Gregory asked,
“Your birthday’s coming up. What would you like?”
Anna hesitated.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a present before. We never celebrated.”
His spoon clattered against the plate.
“What? Why?”
“Mum said I didn’t deserve it. That being born wasn’t an achievement.”
Gregory stood abruptly and walked out. Natalie followed. He leaned against the counter, face in his hands.
“She asked for sweets. Just *sweets*, Natalie. The most basic thing a child should have. God, how did I let this happen?”
“Don’t blame yourself. What matters is she’s home now. With you. With us,” Natalie whispered, holding him. “We’ll give her everything. Even what she never had.”
A week later, the house was a fairy tale—balloons, fairy lights, the smell of cake. Anna woke up to her seventh birthday and thought she was dreaming. Presents, laughter, love. She laughed too.
For the first time.
At the park, she rode the carousel, ate candyfloss, opened presents. Seven gifts—one for every year without joy.
In the car, Gregory cried while Natalie cradled a drowsy Anna.
“I’ll never let her go again,” he said. “She’s my chance to make things right.”
A month passed. Anna ran through the house with Natalie, laughing, calling her “Auntie Nat,” helping bake biscuits.
A year later, at breakfast, she suddenly asked,
“Can I call you Mum?”
Natalie nearly dropped her cup.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling Anna close.
And in that moment, Gregory knew—his family was whole again. Light had returned to their home.
