**”Returned Like a Faulty Toaster”: The Story of a Girl Sent Back to the Orphanage—Until One Woman’s Heart Refused to Let Go**
The word “return” usually brings to mind faulty gadgets or ill-fitting jumpers—something you send back for a refund. But when that word applies to a living, breathing child, it stops being a transaction and becomes something far more chilling.
Emily had never known a real family. From day one, it was sterile cribs, the beige walls of a children’s home, and weary caretakers. Then, one day, hope arrived. A couple took her home, promising a fresh start. Quiet and reserved, Emily tried her hardest—she memorised where everything went, said “please” and “thank you,” kept her room tidy, stayed out of the way. She didn’t know what they wanted from her, but she feared getting it wrong. Feared going back.
It wasn’t enough. Soon, her new family decided she wasn’t what they’d expected. She didn’t grin like a Christmas advert, fling herself into hugs, or act like a plush toy. Overheard words cut deep: *”What do we do with her? She’s like a statue. Doesn’t feel like ours. We’ll send her back.”* “Send her back.” As if she were a misdelivered parcel.
And just like that, Emily was back at the children’s home. No explanation, just a swift drop-off. The first abandonment was tragedy; the second, a cruel joke.
She never blamed them. She blamed herself. If she’d been better, warmer, *enough*, they’d have kept her.
Meanwhile, Margaret, the woman who’d taken Emily in, had her own storm to weather. She and her husband had agreed to foster, but after the divorce, money vanished faster than biscuits at a tea party. Bills piled up, sleep fled, and social services offered no lifeline. With a breaking heart but no other choice, Margaret returned Emily.
Afterward, she barely functioned. Her soul lingered in that orphanage hallway where she’d left the girl she’d grown to love. Then, one day, desperation sparked action. She pawned everything—grandma’s ring, the telly, even her laptop—scraped together cash for a dingy flat, took a gruelling but well-paid job, and ran back to the children’s home.
Terrified, Margaret braced for hatred. Instead, Emily burst into tears and clung to her. *”I waited. I knew you’d come.”*
They’ve been together ever since. Money’s tight—some weeks it’s beans on toast or risking the gas bill—but every morning, Emily peeks into Margaret’s room, checking: *Is she still here?*
Margaret still cries at night, not from exhaustion, but shame. She’ll never forgive herself for that day. But she swears, even if they end up penniless, Emily will never feel like a discarded item again.
These days, life’s modest but warm. Emily smiles now, even laughs—loud and sudden, like a startled magpie. She’s taken up sketching, dreams of being an artist. And Margaret? She’s dreaming too. Of a cosy cottage. A better job. And a world where no child ever feels like something you can just return.
