**29th June, 2024**
The word “return” is something we usually hear in shops—didn’t fit, didn’t like, didn’t work—hand it back, take another. People are used to the idea that if something doesn’t meet expectations, you can just give it away. But when that “something” is a person—a child—it turns into a heartless tragedy that chills you to the bone.
Emily never knew her birth family. From her very first days—a cot in a care home, white walls, tired-eyed nurses. But one day, light burst into her grey world. New parents came, took her home, promised everything would be different. The girl was quiet, withdrawn, but she tried her best to be good. She memorised where things belonged, said “please” and “thank you,” tidied up, stayed out of the way. She didn’t know what they expected, but she was terrified of making a mistake. Terrified of going back.
It wasn’t enough. Soon, the new family decided she wasn’t “right.” No smiles, no clinging hugs, no cuddles. Not a doll. Emily overheard them: “What do we do with her? Stone-faced, no joy. Doesn’t feel like ours. We’ll return her.” That word—*return*—hit like a slap.
So, like a faulty toy, she was back at the care home. No explanations. Just dropped off. If it had been the first time, she might’ve understood—these things happen. But this was the second rejection in one short childhood.
Emily blamed no one but herself. If they’d promised a family, then changed their minds, the problem was her. She must’ve been bad. Not good enough.
Meanwhile, the woman who’d once taken her in faced her own tragedy. Margaret and her husband had chosen to foster. He’d supported it—until he didn’t. After the divorce, everything collapsed. Money ran so low, even food was a struggle. Tears, sleepless nights, desperate calls to social services. With no strength left, Margaret brought Emily back. Her heart shattered, but there’d been no choice.
After that, she didn’t live—she existed. Her soul stayed in that care home corridor, where she’d left the girl she’d already learned to love. Then one day, when all seemed lost, she went to a pawnshop. Gold, gadgets, even her grandmother’s ring—all traded for cash. She found a cheap flat, took a brutal but well-paid job, and… ran back to the care home.
Margaret trembled. “She’ll hate me. See me and turn away.” But when Emily spotted her in the doorway, she burst into tears and threw herself into her arms. “I waited. I knew you’d come,” the girl whispered.
They’ve been together since. It’s been hard. Margaret works all hours, the flat’s cramped, sometimes it’s food *or* bills. But every morning starts with Emily peering into her room, checking: *Is Mum still here?*
Margaret’s cried many nights. Not from exhaustion—from shame. She’ll never forgive herself for that day at the care home. But she knows she’d never do it again. Even penniless. Because Emily isn’t a thing. Not a faulty product. She’s a person. Small, fragile, already hurt too much. The world’s cruel—full of people who treat children like old shoes—but Margaret won’t let it happen again.
They live simply now, but happy. Emily smiles these days. Even laughs. She’s started drawing, dreams of being an artist. And Margaret’s learning to dream too—of a little house, a better job, and a world where no one ever feels thrown away.
*Sometimes love isn’t about keeping things easy. It’s about fighting to stay, even when every door slams shut.*
