Broken Hopes: The Price of Love
For years, Margaret and Edward longed for a child, but fate was unkind—no pregnancy came. Adoption seemed the only path left, and so they took it, though the journey was arduous: endless checks, paperwork, waiting. Margaret still remembered their first visit to the children’s home in a neighbouring town. Young faces, brimming with hope and fear, stared at them as if begging to be taken away. Among them was Emily—a girl of twelve with dark plaits and deep blue eyes, so like Margaret’s late sister. Margaret’s heart ached with tenderness. Edward had hoped for a son, but Emily enchanted them both. She lit up at their visits, clinging to them as though they were already family.
When the matron revealed that Emily had been adopted five times before, each return shrouded in vague excuses, Margaret fought back tears. “The eternal orphan,” they called her. Margaret didn’t pry—her heart couldn’t bear the thought of a child so cruelly betrayed by those she’d loved. She and Edward vowed then: Emily would be their daughter, and no one would abandon her again.
While waiting for final approval, they brought Emily home more often. In their terraced house, they readied a room just for her—a dream for any child denied privacy. Emily adored it, and Margaret and Edward doted on her, healing old wounds. Then a miracle: Margaret learned she was pregnant. It seemed a blessing, as often happens with adoptive parents. Though overjoyed, they never considered revoking Emily’s adoption—she was family.
When approval came, Emily left the children’s home for good—or so they believed. A counsellor advised telling her about the baby to prepare her. They sat her down, explaining that her little sister’s arrival wouldn’t diminish their love, that she’d always be their daughter. But when they mentioned sharing the room someday, Emily’s face darkened. Her eyes turned icy—almost hostile. She stood and walked away without another word.
From that day, Emily behaved strangely. She’d cling to them fiercely, as if afraid they’d vanish. Sometimes she’d embrace Margaret from behind, squeezing so tightly it hurt. “I love you, Mum,” she’d whisper, but her eyes were vacant, teeth clenched. Edward grew uneasy. The counsellor assured them Emily merely feared neglect once the baby came. “Give her more attention,” he said.
Then Charlotte was born—early, colicky, demanding constant care. To spare Emily’s feelings, they kept the cradle in their room. Margaret was exhausted, torn between the girls. Edward helped, taking Emily to school, reading to her. At first, all seemed well—until Margaret noticed that whenever Emily was alone with Charlotte, the baby would shriek hysterically. Once, Margaret rushed in to find Emily pinching Charlotte’s nose. The moment she was caught, Emily released her, and the baby gasped for air. Margaret trembled, clutching Charlotte, but Emily just watched—no remorse in her blue eyes.
That evening, Edward tried talking to her. Emily claimed she’d been “wiping Charlotte’s nose.” The counsellor again urged patience: “She needs more love.” But soon, Margaret caught Emily holding a bottle of boiling water near Charlotte’s crib. Emily’s silence was chilling. For the first time, Margaret saw not a child, but something hollow and frightening.
As Charlotte grew calmer, Emily seemed to adjust—though Margaret never left them alone. That summer, they planned a seaside trip—Emily’s first. But Charlotte was too young to travel, so Margaret gently explained. Emily erupted—howling, thrashing, beyond consolation. The counsellor, bafflingly, called this “healthy” and prescribed more attention. Edward and Margaret exchanged glances: they needed a new expert.
The night Edward was away, Margaret spent hours reading to Emily, trying to understand her. For a moment, she even doubted herself—perhaps Emily was just fragile, wounded by jealousy. Then Emily murmured, “If Charlotte disappeared, would you love me more? Would we go to the seaside?” Margaret’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t jealousy—it was pathology.
Later, a noise woke her. In the dim light, she saw Emily leaning over Charlotte’s crib, pressing a pillow to her face. Margaret lunged, pulling her away. Charlotte was pale, lips blue, barely breathing. Margaret wanted to scream, to strike Emily—but the hatred in her daughter’s eyes froze her. Then Emily spoke: she hated Charlotte. Wanted her gone. Promised to “make her disappear.” Margaret listened through tears. Where had they failed?
New experts were consulted—psychiatrists, therapists—but Emily remained fixated: Charlotte had to vanish, or she’d do it herself. Heartbroken, Margaret and Edward made a terrible choice. They couldn’t risk Charlotte’s life. Emily had to return.
Now Margaret stood at the window, watching Edward lead Emily away. The girl turned, staring straight up—her gaze, full of icy fury, struck Margaret like a shock. She recoiled, weeping. When she looked again, the street was empty. Snow fell softly, burying the footprints of their shattered dream.
