I gave up my daughter right after she was born, but later reclaimed her—and it became my salvation.
Sometimes life challenges you when you’re at your lowest—mentally, physically, emotionally. I went through cancer, isolation, the fear of motherhood, and almost betrayed the most precious thing in my life. But at the very last moment—I changed my mind.
My name is Anna, I’m 31 now, and I’m from London. However, everything I want to share happened far from home—in a country where I didn’t know the language or the people. It was there that I became a mother. And it was there that I nearly left my daughter behind.
At 24, I received a diagnosis that shook my world—cervical cancer. Everything happened quickly: surgery, recovery, fears. Doctors told me I likely couldn’t have children. I didn’t protest—I just accepted it. I assumed my life would take a different path. No family, no kids. Focus on my career, traveling, and freedom.
And so it was. I built a successful career in the financial sector, moved to the United States for a job, and traveled the globe. I had romantic flings with men but avoided commitment. I didn’t let myself fall in love or make plans. It felt like half a life. And that seemed enough—or so I thought.
One day, I began feeling odd—weakness, dizziness. I chalked it up to exhaustion. But the gynecologist, whom I visited more as a formality, dropped a bombshell:
— You’re pregnant. Four months along.
I couldn’t believe it. I was supposed to be… infertile? How? A mistake? No. It was confirmed.
I panicked. Shocked. I didn’t want this child. I had no steady partner, no plan, no desire to be a mother. I told no one—not my parents, friends, or colleagues. I hid everything. Wore loose clothing, barely gained weight, and tried to ignore what was happening.
And then—nine months. I had a fixation—take that long-dreamed vacation to South America. Everything was paid for in advance, so I thought, why not? I flew to Argentina. And there, amid the tropical rains and Spanish chatter, I went into labor.
I delivered in a small hospital near Cordoba. I named my daughter Sarah. I felt nothing. Just exhaustion and fear. I even considered leaving her there, in this country where no one knew us.
But the poverty I saw there horrified me. I realized: if I were to leave Sarah, it should be at home in England. I reached out to the embassy, and they helped me get her documents. With difficulty and multiple layovers, I finally made it back home.
I was worn out, penniless, with a newborn in my arms. The very next day, without a second thought, I brought her to a children’s home. Explained that I couldn’t cope. The social workers didn’t judge. They just silently accepted her.
I walked back home, collapsed into bed and… felt empty. It was as if everything was happening to someone else. Two days later, I returned to work.
But after a couple of weeks, I got a call from the shelter.
— There’s something wrong with your daughter. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t respond. She just cries.
I went. I didn’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t my fault. But when I saw her—thin, with dim eyes, wrapped in someone else’s blanket—something clicked within me.
She recognized me. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She just looked—like she was waiting. And I understood: she was mine. She needed me just as much as I needed her.
I returned home and stayed awake all night. The next morning, I went to work and told everyone—my boss, colleagues, friends. I didn’t want to lie anymore.
A week later, I brought Sarah home.
At first, it was tough. Sleepless nights, fear, exhaustion. But each day—she grew stronger, and so did I. We got used to one another. We became a family.
Now Sarah is three years old. She laughs, runs around the apartment, sings songs. I am truly living again. Without a mask, without running away. I’m a mom. And while it’s just the two of us, we are happy.
I don’t know if I’ll ever meet a man who will love us both. But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I once gathered the strength to choose love over fear. And I don’t regret it for a second.
Sarah is my salvation. And my redemption.
