**Broken Hopes: The Price of Love**
For years, Margaret and Edward longed for a child, but fate was unkind—pregnancy never came. The decision to adopt seemed the only path forward, as though whispered by necessity itself. The journey was fraught with endless checks, documents, and waiting. Margaret still recalled their first visit to the orphanage in the neighboring town of Shrewsbury. Children’s eyes, brimming with hope and fear, followed them, silently pleading to be taken away. Among them was Lucy—a twelve-year-old girl with dark braids and deep blue eyes, eerily resembling Margaret’s late sister. The woman’s heart ached with tenderness. Edward had dreamt of a son, but Lucy enchanted them both. She brightened at their every visit, clinging to them as though they were blood.
When the orphanage matron revealed Lucy had been adopted and returned five times, Margaret barely held back tears. “The eternal orphan,” they called her. The reasons for her returns were vague, but Margaret didn’t pry. Her kind heart couldn’t bear the thought of a child betrayed so many times by those she’d loved. She and Edward vowed then: Lucy would be their daughter, and no one would abandon her again.
As they awaited approval, they took Lucy home more often. In their modest townhouse, they prepared a room just for her—every orphan’s dream of personal space. Lucy was overjoyed, and Margaret and Edward showered her with love, hoping to mend her wounds. Then, a miracle: Margaret discovered she was with child. It felt like a blessing—those who adopt often find their own prayers answered. The couple rejoiced, but never thought to revoke Lucy’s adoption. She was already family.
When guardianship was granted, Lucy left the orphanage for good—or so they believed. A counsellor suggested telling her of the baby’s arrival to ease the transition. Margaret and Edward sat her down, explaining she’d soon have a baby sister, that their love wouldn’t waver, that she’d always be their daughter. But when they mentioned she’d eventually share her room, Lucy’s expression darkened. Her gaze turned icy, nearly hostile. Without a word, she stood and walked away.
From then on, Lucy acted strangely. When her parents arrived home, she’d cling to them desperately, as though terrified they’d vanish. Sometimes, she’d wrap her arms around Margaret’s neck so tightly it left her gasping. *“I love you, Mummy,”* she’d whisper, but her eyes glazed over, her teeth clenched. Margaret soothed her, but Edward grew uneasy. Their psychologist insisted Lucy simply feared losing their attention. *“Give her more time,”* he urged.
Then Sophie was born. The baby arrived early, fussy and frail. Her crib stayed in the parents’ bedroom to spare Lucy disruption. Margaret exhausted herself balancing both girls, while Edward helped by taking Lucy to school and reading to her at night. At first, all seemed well—until Margaret noticed Sophie shrieking hysterically whenever left alone with Lucy. Rushing in, she’d find Lucy hovering over the cradle, *“tending”* to her sister. Once, she caught Lucy pinching Sophie’s nose shut. When she released her, the baby wailed, breathless. Lucy just stared, her blue eyes hollow.
That evening, Edward coaxed an explanation from Lucy: *“I was wiping her nose.”* The excuse was feeble, but the psychologist dismissed it. *“She needs more love.”* Then came another incident—Lucy holding a bottle of scalding water near Sophie’s mouth. Again, she offered no defense, only that unsettling gaze.
As months passed, Sophie grew calmer. Lucy seemed to adjust, but Margaret never left them alone. That summer, they planned a seaside holiday—Lucy’s first. Yet travelling with an infant was too risky, and Margaret gently explained this. Lucy erupted. She didn’t cry; she howled, thrashing on the floor as though possessed. The psychologist, bafflingly, called this *“healthy.”* The couple exchanged glances—this man was useless.
The night Edward left on business, Margaret tucked Lucy in herself. For hours, she read to her, talked, searching her daughter’s heart. For a moment, she wondered if she’d misjudged Lucy—if she was just a wounded child. Then Lucy asked, *“If Sophie disappeared… would you love me more? Would you have more babies? Would we go to the seaside?”* Margaret froze. This wasn’t grief—this was something darker.
Later, as Margaret slept, a rustling woke her. She bolted upright to see Lucy pressing a pillow over Sophie’s face. She tore the child away, finding Sophie pale, barely breathing. Lucy’s glare was venom. *“I hate her,”* she spat. *“She’s in the way. I’ll make her go away.”*
More experts, more futile attempts—Lucy wouldn’t relent. *“She has to disappear,”* she insisted. Heartbroken, Margaret and Edward made an agonising choice: Sophie’s life couldn’t be risked. Lucy had to return to the orphanage.
Now, Margaret stood at the window, watching Edward lead Lucy away. The girl turned, locking eyes with her. Rage, ice-cold, struck Margaret like a blade. She stumbled back, sobbing. When she dared look again, the street was empty. Snow fell softly, burying the footprints of their shattered dream.
