I gave up my daughter right after she was born, but later took her back—and it turned out to be my salvation.
Sometimes life challenges you when you’re at your lowest—mentally, physically, and emotionally. I’ve battled cancer, loneliness, and the fear of motherhood… nearly giving up the most precious thing I had. But at the last moment, I changed my mind.
My name is Emily, I’m 31 now, and I’m from Manchester. But everything I want to share happened far from home—in a country where I neither spoke the language nor knew anyone. It was there I became a mother and almost gave up my daughter.
When I was 24, I got a diagnosis that could make the ground disappear beneath your feet—cervical cancer. Everything happened swiftly: surgery, recovery, fears. Doctors said I’d likely never have children. I didn’t argue—I just accepted it. I decided my life would take a different path. No family, no kids. Just career, travel, freedom.
And that’s what happened. I built a good career in finance, moved to the UK on contract, and traveled half the world. I had flings with men, but no commitments. I never let myself fall in love, never planned ahead. I lived as if half-awake. And even that seemed enough—or so I thought.
One day, I started feeling odd—weakness, dizziness. I dismissed it as fatigue. But the gynecologist I visited out of routine dropped a bombshell:
— You’re pregnant. Four months along.
I couldn’t believe it. How? I was supposed to be infertile. A mistake? No. It was confirmed.
It was panic-inducing. Shock. 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 kept it secret. Wore loose clothes, barely gained weight, tried to ignore it all.
Then came the ninth month. I was obsessed with the idea of a holiday in South America, something I had dreamed of since my youth. Everything was paid for in advance, and I decided—why not? I flew to Argentina. And there, amid tropical rains and Spanish-speaking locals, I went into labor.
I gave birth in a small hospital near Córdoba. I named my daughter Sarah. I felt nothing. Only exhaustion and fear. I even considered leaving her there, in this place where nobody knows anyone.
But the poverty I witnessed there horrified me. I realized: if I were to leave Sarah, it would at least be at home, in England. I contacted the embassy, and they helped with her documents. With difficulty, through numerous transfers, I returned home.
I was drained, broke, with a newborn in my arms. The next day, without a second thought, I took her to a children’s home. I explained I couldn’t cope. The social workers didn’t judge. They just silently accepted her.
I went home, collapsed into bed, and… felt empty. It was as if none of it had happened to me. Two days later, I returned to work.
But a couple of weeks later, I got a call from the care home.
— Something’s wrong with your girl. She’s not eating. She’s unresponsive. Just cries.
I went there. I didn’t know why. Maybe to make sure it wasn’t my fault. But when I saw her—thin, with dim eyes, wrapped in a borrowed blanket—something clicked.
She recognized me. Didn’t cry. Didn’t smile. Just looked—as if waiting. And I realized: she is mine. She needs me as much as I need her.
I went home and didn’t sleep all night. In the 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 I grew more resilient. We got used to each other. We became a family.
Sarah is now three. She laughs, runs around the flat, sings songs. And I’m truly living again. Authentically. No masks, no running. I’m a mum. And though it’s just the two of us, we’re happy.
I don’t know if I’ll ever meet a man who’ll love us both. But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is I once mustered the courage and chose love over fear. And I don’t regret it for a single moment.
Sarah is my salvation. And my redemption.
