The word “return” usually calls to mind shops and receipts—too small, wrong colour, simply not right. People treat objects this way, as if they could be swapped like shoes. But when this word touches a living soul—a child—it twists into something hollow, something that chills the bones.
Emily had never known a family. From her earliest days: a sterile cot, the pale walls of a care home, nurses with weary glances. Then, one day, light cracked through the grey. New parents arrived, took her home, promised everything would change. She was quiet, withdrawn, but tried desperately to be good. She memorised where things belonged, said “please” and “thank you,” stayed out of sight. She didn’t know what was expected, only feared making a mistake. Feared going back.
But it wasn’t enough. Soon, the family decided she wasn’t what they wanted. No smiles, no eager hugs, no doll-like affection. Just a girl. Emily overheard them: “What do we even do with her? No joy in her at all. Doesn’t feel like ours. We’ll return her.” The word *return* struck like a slap.
So, like defective merchandise, she was taken back to the care home. No explanations. Just driven away and left. If it had been the first time, she might have understood—these things happen. But this was the second rejection in her short life.
Emily blamed no one. She decided the flaw was hers. Not the people who promised a home and changed their minds—her. She must be wrong. Not good enough.
Meanwhile, the woman who once took her in, Margaret, had her own sorrow. She and her husband had chosen to foster. He had agreed—until he didn’t. After the divorce, everything crumbled. Money vanished; some days, even food was scarce. Tears, sleepless nights, frantic calls to social services. With no strength left, Margaret had returned Emily. Her heart shattered, but there was no choice.
After that, she only existed. Her soul lingered in that care home hallway where she’d left the girl she’d already grown to love. Then, one day, rock bottom came. She walked into a pawnshop. Jewellery, gadgets, even her grandmother’s ring—gone, traded for cash. She found a cramped flat, took gruelling shifts at a factory, and then—ran back to the care home.
Margaret trembled at the thought. “She’ll hate me. Turn away the moment she sees me.” But when Emily saw her in the doorway—she burst into tears and flung herself forward. “I waited,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come.”
They rebuilt their life together. It was hard. Margaret worked tirelessly; the flat was bare, some weeks choosing between bills and groceries. Every morning began with Emily peering into her room, still uncertain: *Are you still here?*
At night, Margaret cried—not from exhaustion, but shame. She could never forgive herself for shutting that door. But she swore it would never happen again. Even if she were penniless. Because Emily wasn’t an object. Not faulty goods. She was a person—small, fragile, carrying too much hurt. The world was cruel, full of those who discarded children like worn-out shoes. But Margaret wouldn’t let it happen. Not again.
Now, they live simply, but happily. Emily smiles these days. Sometimes laughs out loud. She’s started drawing. Dreams of being an artist. And Margaret? She’s learning to dream again—of a little house, a better job. Of a world where no one ever feels thrown away.
