Belated Regret
Emily had never particularly wished for a second child. She and James already had a seven-year-old son, and the thought of returning to sleepless nights, nappies, and endless crying felt unbearable. Her career, finally, was taking off—just as she’d clawed her way out of the shadow of maternity leave, another pregnancy threatened to pull her back. But James had always longed for a daughter, and now that it had happened, backing out seemed impossible.
The baby girl was born astonishingly beautiful—delicate features, a tiny button nose, rosebud lips, and most of all, deep blue eyes like cornflowers in a summer meadow. Gazing into them felt like pure joy—until the doctors delivered the crushing news. A congenital heart defect. Years of treatment awaited, possibly surgery, constant monitoring. Their lives would never be the same.
Emily listened, her vision of the future collapsing. Where were the corporate galas, the holidays abroad, the luxury gym memberships, the late-night parties, the beachside getaways with her girlfriends? She didn’t want to give it all up. Not at twenty-eight. James listened—then, far too quickly, agreed. They decided to give the child up. To friends and family, they claimed she had died at birth.
Margaret Evans had worked as a carer at the children’s home for twenty-five years. By now, she should have been numb to it all, yet every abandoned child cut just as deep. But this one—this tiny, blue-eyed girl with an open, trusting gaze—wrenched her heart like no other.
The little one adored Margaret instantly, reaching for her, giggling, pressing tiny palms to her face. More and more, Margaret found herself thinking: *Our own children are grown and gone. Just me and John now. We’ve got our health, our little cottage, the garden, the hens. Fresh air, the countryside. Why not?*
She asked her husband. Silent as ever, John visited the home, looked at the girl, then blinked hard.
“Your choice, love,” he said gruffly. “If you reckon you can manage the treatments—I’m with you. We’ll sort the money somehow.”
“I’ll manage, John, I swear!” She squeezed his hand.
“Let’s call her Hope. So she’ll have the strength to fight. Feels like fate,” he muttered before walking out.
And so, the girl found a real family.
Life was hard. Hospitals, tests, rehab, specialists. Margaret spent nights by her crib, days buried in medical textbooks, begging doctors for advice. John worked himself to the bone, grew thin, grey—but the moment Hope ran to him, arms wide, he’d light up like springtime.
Hope grew up kind and radiant. Everyone adored her—elders, children, even the gruffest villagers. One day, at five years old, she proudly carried two ears of corn to old Mrs. Dawson, marching ahead like a little queen.
“Bet you feel better now, eh?”
“Aye, love,” the old woman chuckled. “You’re my little ray of sunshine.”
When the surgery came, the whole village prayed. And Hope survived. Her heart—and soul—were saved.
Years later, Hope graduated top of her class and enrolled in medical school. One April afternoon, she strolled through the park, blossoms thick in the air, birds singing, the world waking. She dreamed of going home for the May bank holiday—helping Mum in the garden, sipping herbal tea in the arbour at dusk.
Then something soft bumped her leg—a stuffed rabbit. A boy sat nearby with a polished, elegant woman.
“Why’d you throw it away?” Hope asked.
“‘Cause it’s rubbish! It’s sick, gonna die!” the boy snapped.
Hope froze. The woman sighed.
“Forgive him… He’s got a heart defect. His parents didn’t want him. Lives with me now. My grandson.”
Hope studied her. Beautiful, poised—but her eyes were hollow, scorched. Wanting to comfort, Hope shared her own story. How she was born with a broken heart. How she was adopted. How her parents fought to save her.
The woman went deathly pale.
It was Emily.
She couldn’t look away. This was her daughter. *Hers.* Those cornflower eyes, James’s features staring back. Her pulse roared.
“Impossible…” she whispered.
“Anything’s possible!” Hope beamed. “If you want it, believe, and fight for it! My mum and dad saved me. You’ll manage too. Good luck!”
And she walked on, leaving Emily shattered on the bench.
Emily sat there, hollow, crumbling. This was the daughter she’d abandoned. For her career, her freedom. But that freedom had been a lie. James left her. Their son spiralled—drink, fights, a wasted life. His wife fled, leaving the sick boy with her.
Now, Emily wanted to scream, *”I’m your mother!”* But she couldn’t. She had no right. She’d walked away. No take-backs.
And Hope? She walked on, smiling at the sky, unaware she’d just saved another heart.
