Late Regrets
Emily had never particularly dreamed of having a second child. She and James already had a seven-year-old son, and the thought of returning to sleepless nights, nappies, and wailing babies held no appeal. Besides, her career was finally taking off. She’d only just clawed her way out of the maternity leave slump—and now, another pregnancy. But James, annoyingly enough, had always longed for a little girl, and now that it had happened, backing out seemed impossible.
The baby girl was born astonishingly beautiful—delicate features, a tiny button nose, rosy lips, and, most striking of all, those endless blue eyes like forget-me-nots in a summer meadow. Looking into them made you want to smile—until the doctors dropped the bombshell: a congenital heart defect. Years of treatment awaited, possibly major surgery, constant monitoring. Their whole world was about to flip upside down.
Emily listened and felt her carefully constructed life crumbling. Where now were the glamorous work parties, the weekend getaways to Ibiza, the posh gym memberships, the all-nighters with friends, the girls’ trips to the seaside? She wasn’t ready to give that up. Not at twenty-eight. James listened… and weirdly, far too quickly, agreed with her reasoning. They decided to give the child up. To everyone else, they spun the story: the little girl had been stillborn.
Margaret had worked as a nursery assistant for twenty-five years. You’d think she’d have grown numb to it all, but every abandoned child still pierced her heart like the first time. Especially this one—tiny, blue-eyed, gazing up with such quiet vulnerability.
The baby adored Margaret instantly—reaching for her, giggling, patting her face with pudgy hands. Margaret found herself thinking more and more: “My own kids are grown and gone. Just me and George now. Health’s still good, the cottage is cozy, the garden’s thriving. Fresh air, village life… Why not?”
She brought it up with George. He trudged to the nursery, took one look at the girl, blinked rapidly, and muttered, “Your call, love. If you can manage the treatments, I’m in. We’ll sort the money somehow.”
“I’ll manage, Georgie, I will!” she squeezed his hand.
“Let’s name her Hope. A little extra strength to fight with,” George said before walking out.
And so the girl found a real family. It wasn’t easy—hospitals, tests, endless therapies, consultations. Margaret burned the candle at both ends: nights by Hope’s bed, days buried in medical pamphlets, begging specialists for advice. George worked himself to the bone, thinning out and greying, but the second Hope toddled over for a cuddle, he lit up like a sunflower in June.
Hope grew up kind and bright, the sort of child who could charm anyone from grumpy old farmers to fussy toddlers. She helped wherever she could, and once, aged five, proudly marched ahead of old Mrs. Wilkins, clutching two ears of sweetcorn: “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“Oh, much better, pet. You’re a proper ray of sunshine,” the old woman chuckled.
When the surgery finally came, the whole village held its breath. It worked. The girl pulled through—heart and soul still beating.
Years passed. Hope aced school, got into med school. One April afternoon, she strolled through the park, spring in full swing—blossoms bursting, birds belting their hearts out, the earth waking up. She dreamed of going home for Easter, helping Mum in the garden, sipping chamomile tea in the arbor at dusk.
Suddenly, something plush smacked against her ankle—a stuffed bunny. A boy and a polished, well-dressed woman sat on a bench nearby.
“Why’d you throw him?” Hope asked.
“Don’t want him! He’s sick and he’s gonna die!” the boy snapped.
Hope froze. The woman sighed. “Sorry… He’s got a heart condition. His parents… well, he lives with me. My grandson.”
Hope studied her—sleek, stylish, but her eyes… hollow, burnt-out. Wanting to comfort, she shared her own story: born with a dodgy heart, adopted, parents who moved heaven and earth to save her.
The woman went chalk-white. This was Emily.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her daughter. Right there. Those forget-me-not eyes, James’s features staring back. Her pulse hammered, breath thin.
“It can’t be…” she whispered.
“Oh, it can!” Hope beamed. “You just have to want it enough, believe enough, fight enough! My mum and dad fixed me. You’ll sort it too—good luck!” And she walked off, leaving Emily shattered on the bench.
Emily sat there, crumpled, trembling with the weight of it. Her daughter. The one she’d tossed aside for career, cocktails, freedom—except the freedom never came. James left her for someone else. Their son spiraled—booze, brawls, a wastrel’s life. Daughter-in-law bolted, dumping the sick grandson in her lap.
Now Emily burned to sprint after her, scream, “I’m your mother!” But she didn’t dare. She’d forfeited that right the day she walked away. No take-backs.
Meanwhile, Hope ambled down the path, grinning at the sky, none the wiser. She had no idea she’d just healed another heart.
