“Like a Faulty Item Returned”: The Story of a Girl Sent Back to the Orphanage—But One Woman’s Heart Would Not Let Her Go
The word “return” is something we usually hear in shops—too big, didn’t fit, didn’t work—hand it back and get a replacement. People grow used to the idea that if something doesn’t meet expectations, it can simply be given back. But when that something is a living, breathing child, the whole notion twists into something callous and cruel, a tragedy that chills to the bone.
Emily had never known her birth family. From her earliest days—a sterile cot, the pale walls of the care home, weary-eyed carers who moved like ghosts through the halls. Then, one day, light burst into her grey world. New parents arrived, took her home, promised everything would be different now. The girl was quiet, withdrawn, but she tried—oh, how she tried—to be good. She learned where everything went in the house, said “please” and “thank you,” kept her things tidy, stayed out of sight. She didn’t know what they expected, only that she mustn’t make a mistake. Mustn’t be sent back.
But it wasn’t enough. Soon, the new family decided she was “not what they expected.” She didn’t smile, didn’t throw herself into their arms, didn’t cling. Not a doll, not a pet—a child. Emily overheard the words by accident: *”What do we even do with her? That blank stare, no affection. It doesn’t feel like she’s ours. We’ll return her.”* The word *return* hit like a slap.
So, like a faulty toy, the girl found herself once more at the doors of the care home. No explanation. Just dropped off and left. If this had been the second time in her life, perhaps she’d have understood—these things happen. But this was the second rejection in one short, brutal childhood.
Emily blamed no one. She decided the fault was hers. Not the people who had promised her a family, then changed their minds—*her*. She must have been bad. Must have failed.
Meanwhile, the woman who had once taken Emily in was drowning in her own despair. She had wanted so badly to be a mother. After years of longing, Margaret and her husband had agreed to foster. He had supported her—at first. Then came the arguments, the silences, the divorce. Bills swallowed her whole; some nights, she skipped meals just to keep the lights on. Tears, endless phone calls with social services, the crushing weight of guilt. With no money, no support, she had no choice—she brought Emily back.
Every day after was an empty husk of existence. Her soul stayed behind in that care home corridor, where she had left the girl she’d already grown to love. Then, one desperate evening, she walked into a pawn shop. Jewellery, electronics, even her grandmother’s ring—all traded for cash. She found a cheap flat, took gruelling shifts just to afford rent, and… ran back to the care home.
Margaret trembled as she stood at the door. *”She’ll hate me. She’ll take one look and turn away.”* But when Emily saw her—she burst into tears and flew into Margaret’s arms. *”I waited. I knew you’d come,”* the girl whispered.
They’ve been together ever since. It hasn’t been easy. Margaret works herself to exhaustion; some weeks, dinner is toast and baked beans. But every morning, Emily—still unsure—peeks into her room, checking: *Are you still here?*
Margaret cries at night. Not from exhaustion. From shame. She can’t forgive herself for that day at the care home, for shutting the door like it was nothing. She vows never to do it again, even if it leaves her penniless. Because Emily isn’t merchandise. Not a product to be sent back. She’s a person—small, fragile, already hurt too much by the world. And though life is cruel, though some still treat children like unwanted shoes, Margaret won’t let it happen again.
They live simply now, but they’re happy. Emily smiles these days. Sometimes even laughs. She’s started painting—dreams of being an artist. And Margaret? She’s learning to dream again too. Of a little house. A better job. And most of all, of a world where no one ever feels like a thing to be thrown away.
