Late Regret
Frances had never particularly wanted a second child. She and Edward already had a seven-year-old son, and the thought of returning to sleepless nights, nappies, and endless crying didn’t appeal. Besides, her career was finally taking off. She’d just clawed her way out of maternity leave obscurity—only to find herself pregnant again. Edward, annoyingly, had always dreamed of a daughter, and now that it had happened, backing out seemed impossible.
The girl was born strikingly beautiful—a delicate face, tiny nose, rosebud lips, and most of all, deep blue eyes like forget-me-nots in a summer meadow. Gazing into them made you want to smile, but soon, everything darkened. Doctors revealed the baby had a congenital heart defect. Long-term treatment, possibly major surgery, constant monitoring—their lives would never be the same.
Frances listened, feeling her world crumble. Where were the glamorous work parties now? The holidays abroad? The expensive gym memberships, the late-night parties, weekends away with the girls? She wasn’t ready to give all that up. Not at twenty-eight. Edward listened—then agreed far too quickly. They decided to give the child up. To relatives and friends, they claimed the baby had died at birth.
Margaret had worked as a caretaker at the children’s home for twenty-five years. You’d think she’d be used to it, but every abandoned child still cut deep. This tiny blue-eyed girl, with her clear gaze and vulnerable soul, was especially hard to bear.
The baby adored Margaret instantly—reaching for her, giggling, pressing tiny hands to her face. Margaret began to think, *My own children are grown and gone. Just me and John left. We’ve still got our health, the cottage, the garden, the hens. Fresh air, the countryside. Why not?*
She broached it with her husband. He came to the home, looked at the girl, blinked rapidly, and said, “Your choice, love. If you can manage the treatment, I’m for it. We’ll sort the money somehow.”
“I can manage, John, I can!” She squeezed his hand.
“Let’s call her Hope,” he said. “A name to fight for. Feels like fate.” And with that, he walked out.
So Hope found a real family. Life was hard—hospitals, tests, rehab courses, sanatoriums. Margaret spent nights by her bed, days scouring medical books, pleading with doctors. John worked tirelessly, losing weight, greying fast—but the moment Hope ran to him, hugging tight, he’d light up like spring itself.
Hope grew kind and bright. Everyone, from toddlers to the elderly, warmed to her. At five, she carried two ears of corn to old Mrs. Wilson, marching ahead proudly.
“Better now, isn’t it?”
“Oh, much better, love. You’re my little sunshine,” the old woman beamed.
When the operation came, the whole village prayed. It succeeded. Hope survived—heart, soul, and all.
Years passed. Hope excelled in school, got into medical school. One April afternoon, she wandered through the park. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, the earth waking anew. She dreamed of going home for the bank holiday, helping Mum in the garden, sipping herbal tea in the arbour.
Then something soft hit her leg—a stuffed rabbit. Nearby, a boy and a well-dressed woman sat on a bench.
“Why’d you throw him?” Hope asked.
“He’s no good! He’s sick and he’ll die!” the boy snapped.
Hope faltered. The woman sighed.
“Sorry. He’s got a bad heart. His parents didn’t want him, so… he’s with me. My grandson.”
Hope studied her. Beautiful, elegant—but her eyes were hollow, burned-out. Wanting to comfort her, Hope shared her own story—how she’d been born with a weak heart, how her parents had adopted her, how Mum and Dad had pulled her through.
The woman went white. It was Frances.
She stared, unable to look away. This was her daughter. Those forget-me-not eyes, the same features as Edward. Her heart raced, breath uneven.
“It can’t be…”
“It can!” Hope said warmly. “If you want it, believe it, fight for it! Mum and Dad saved me. You’ll manage too. Good luck!”
And she walked on, leaving Frances shattered behind her.
Frances sat, hollow as an old ghost, trembling with realization. This was the daughter she’d abandoned. For parties, promotions, freedom—a freedom she’d never found. Edward left her for another woman. Their son grew wild—booze, fights, waste. His wife left him with their sick boy, dumped on Frances.
Now, she wanted to run after Hope, scream, *I’m your mother!*—but she couldn’t. She’d forfeited that right long ago.
And Hope? She strolled on, smiling at the sky. She never knew she’d just saved another heart.
I suppose the lesson’s this—some choices haunt you forever. And regret? It’s a bitter pill, best swallowed before it’s too late.
