Broken Hopes: The Price of Love
For years, Emily and James longed for a child, but fate was cruel—pregnancy never came. Adoption seemed the only answer, a path they embraced despite its hurdles. Endless paperwork, home checks, the agonizing wait. Emily would never forget their first visit to the children’s home in the next town over. Small faces stared up, hope and fear warring in their eyes—pleading to be chosen. Among them was Lucy, twelve years old, with dark braids and piercing blue eyes, a mirror of Emily’s late sister. Her heart clenched with aching tenderness. James had dreamed of a son, but Lucy captivated them both. She bloomed under their attention, clinging to them like family.
The director revealed Lucy had been adopted five times—and returned each time. “The eternal foster child,” they called her. The reasons were vague, but Emily didn’t pry. Her gentle soul couldn’t bear the thought of a child betrayed so often by those she’d loved. They vowed Lucy would be theirs, and no one would abandon her again.
While waiting for approval, they brought Lucy home more often. In their three-bedroom house, they prepared a room just for her—a sanctuary for a girl who’d never had her own space. Lucy blossomed, and Emily and James poured love into her, determined to heal her wounds. Then, a miracle: Emily discovered she was pregnant. It felt like divine reward—so often granted to those who opened their hearts. They rejoiced but never considered halting the adoption. Lucy was family now.
When approval came, Lucy left the care home for good—or so they thought. A therapist urged them to prepare her for the baby’s arrival. Emily and James sat her down, assuring her she’d always be loved, always their daughter. But when they mentioned sharing her room someday, Lucy’s face darkened. Her eyes turned icy, almost hostile. She rose without a word and walked away.
From then on, Lucy changed. She’d cling to them fiercely, arms locked like she feared they’d vanish. Sometimes, she’d wrap her hands around Emily’s neck from behind, squeezing just a little too tight. “Love you, Mum,” she’d whisper, but her gaze was hollow, teeth grinding. Emily soothed her, but James grew uneasy. The therapist waved it off—just fear of losing attention. “Give her more time,” he advised.
Hell truly began when baby Sophie arrived. Premature, colicky, demanding constant care. Her crib stayed in their room, not to disturb Lucy, but Emily was stretched thin. James helped, taking Lucy to school, reading bedtime stories. At first, things seemed stable. Then Emily noticed: every time Lucy was left alone with Sophie, the baby screamed uncontrollably. Once, she rushed in to find Lucy pinching Sophie’s nose, fingers clamped over her face. Lucy released her instantly, but the baby gasped, wailing. Emily clutched Sophie, trembling. Lucy just stared—empty, unrepentant.
That night, James tried talking to her. After gentle coaxing, Lucy muttered, “I was wiping her nose.” The excuse was flimsy, but the therapist again urged patience, insisting Lucy just needed love. Then came the next horror: Emily caught Lucy by Sophie’s crib, holding a bottle of boiling water. Lucy watched their reactions in silence. Emily, staring into those eyes, saw no child—only chilling, calculated emptiness.
Months passed. Sophie grew stronger; Lucy seemed to adjust. But Emily never left them alone. That summer, they planned their first seaside trip—Lucy’s dream. But Sophie’s fragile health made it risky. When Emily gently explained, Lucy exploded. Not tears—primal, thrashing fury, a wounded animal’s howl. Emily was paralyzed. The therapist, bafflingly, praised Lucy’s “emotional honesty.” They exchanged glances—time for a new expert.
The night James was away, Emily spent hours reading to Lucy, trying to reach her. For a moment, she doubted herself—maybe Lucy was just fragile, starved for love. Then Lucy murmured, “If Sophie disappeared… would you love me more? Would you take me to the beach?” Emily’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t jealousy. This was dangerous.
Exhausted, she slept—until a rustling woke her. She bolted upright. Lucy loomed over Sophie’s crib, pressing a pillow down. Emily tore it away, shoving Lucy back. Sophie was blue-lipped, barely breathing. Emily wanted to scream, to strike—but Lucy’s glare, venomous and cold, froze her. Then Lucy spoke. She hated Sophie. Wanted her gone. Promised she’d make it happen. Emily crumpled, tears burning. Where had she failed?
More therapists, psychiatrists—nothing worked. Lucy was adamant: Sophie had to disappear. Grief-stricken, Emily and James made the unthinkable choice. They couldn’t risk Sophie’s life. Lucy had to go back.
Now Emily stood at the window, watching James lead Lucy away. The girl paused, turned, and locked eyes with her. That look—pure, icy hatred—struck like a knife. Emily staggered back, sobbing. When she dared look again, the street was empty. Snow fell softly, burying the footprints of their shattered dream.
