**”Returned Like Faulty Goods”**
The word “return” is something we usually associate with shops—too big, didn’t like it, doesn’t work—send it back, get a replacement. People grow used to the idea that if something doesn’t meet expectations, you can just hand it over and walk away. But when that “something” is a living person—a child—it becomes heartless cruelty, the kind that chills your bones.
Emily never knew her birth family. From her earliest days—a sterile cot, the plain walls of an orphanage, nurses with tired eyes. Then, one day, light broke into her grey world. New parents arrived, took her home, promised everything would be different. She was quiet, withdrawn, but she tried her best to be good. 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 feared getting it wrong. Feared going back.
It wasn’t enough. Soon, her new family decided she wasn’t “right.” Didn’t smile, didn’t rush for hugs, wasn’t affectionate. Not a doll. Emily overheard the conversation by accident: “What do we even do with her? No joy in her at all. Doesn’t feel like ours. We’ll send her back.” The word *back* hit like a slap.
So, like a faulty toy, she was returned to the orphanage. No explanations. Just driven there and left. If it had been the second time in her life, she might’ve thought—*this happens*. But it was the second rejection in one short childhood.
Emily blamed no one. She decided it was her. Not the people who’d promised her a home and changed their minds—*her*. She wasn’t good enough.
Meanwhile, the woman who’d once taken her in had faced her own tragedy. Margaret and her husband had chosen to foster. He’d supported it at first, then changed. After the divorce, everything collapsed—money so tight she couldn’t afford food. Tears, sleepless nights, desperate calls to social services. With no means to cope, Margaret had returned Emily. Her heart shattered, but she’d had no choice.
After that, she didn’t live—she existed. Her soul stayed behind in that orphanage corridor where she’d left the girl she’d already come to love. Then, one day, when all seemed lost, she went to a pawnshop. Jewellery, electronics, even her grandmother’s ring—everything traded for cash. She found a cheap flat, took on gruelling but well-paid work, and… ran back to the orphanage.
Margaret trembled with fear. *”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 ever since. It’s been hard. Margaret works endless shifts; the flat is modest, some months choosing between bills and meals. But every morning, Emily—still hesitant—peeks into the bedroom to check: *Is Mum still here?*
Margaret has cried many nights. Not from exhaustion. From shame. She’ll never forgive herself for shutting that orphanage door behind Emily. She swore she’d never do it again. Not even if she were penniless. Because Emily isn’t a thing. Not faulty goods. She’s a person. Small, fragile, having endured too much. The world may be cruel, full of those who return children like unwanted shoes—but Margaret won’t let it happen again.
Now they live simply, but happily. Emily smiles now. Sometimes laughs loud. She’s started painting. Dreams of being an artist. And Margaret’s relearning to dream—of a little house, a better job, and a world where no one ever has to feel like discarded rubbish.
**Lesson learned:** Some choices break you, but love—real love—finds a way to put the pieces back.
