Broken Dreams: The Price of Love
For years, Eleanor and William dreamed of a child, but fate was unkind—pregnancy never came. The decision to adopt arrived almost naturally, as if it were the only path left. The road to this was far from easy: endless checks, paperwork, waiting. Eleanor still remembered their first visit to a children’s home in a nearby town. Young eyes—some hopeful, some fearful—stared up at them, as if silently begging to be taken away. Among them was Lucy, a girl of twelve with dark braids and deep blue eyes, so much like Eleanor’s late sister. Her heart ached at the sight. William had longed for a son, but Lucy charmed them both instantly. She brightened at every visit, clinging to them as if they were her own.
When the director revealed that Lucy had been adopted five times before—each family returning her—Eleanor nearly wept. “The eternal foster child,” they called her. The reasons for her return were vague, but Eleanor didn’t press for details. Her kind heart couldn’t bear the thought of a child being betrayed so many times by those she’d learned to love. Together, they vowed: Lucy would be their daughter, and no one would abandon her again.
While awaiting final approval, they brought Lucy home more and more often. In their three-bedroom house, they prepared a room just for her—a dream for any child raised without privacy. Lucy was overjoyed; Eleanor and William poured love and care into her, hoping to heal old wounds. Then came the miracle: Eleanor discovered she was pregnant. It was as if fate had blessed them—as often happens with those who take in a child. The couple rejoiced, but they never considered canceling the adoption. Lucy was family now.
At last, the authorities granted approval, and Lucy left the children’s home for good—or so they thought. A counselor advised them to tell her about the coming baby, to prepare her. Eleanor and William steeled themselves for the talk. They explained that Lucy would soon have a little sister, that they would love her just as much, that she would always be their daughter. But when they mentioned she might one day share her room, Lucy’s face darkened. Her gaze turned cold, almost hostile. Without a word, she stood and walked away.
From that day, Lucy behaved strangely. The moment her parents returned home, she would cling to them, arms tight as if fearing they might vanish. Sometimes she would creep up behind Eleanor and wrap her arms around her neck with crushing force. “I love you, Mum,” she’d whisper, but her eyes were hollow, her teeth grinding. Eleanor soothed her, but William grew uneasy. The counselor they consulted assured them Lucy simply feared losing their attention. “Nothing alarming—just give her more time,” he said.
Hell arrived when Charlotte was born. The premature baby cried often, needing constant care. To avoid disturbing Lucy, the cradle stayed in the parents’ room. Eleanor split herself between her daughters, exhausted beyond measure. William helped, taking Lucy to school, reading to her at night. At first, all seemed well. But then Eleanor noticed: every time she left Charlotte alone with Lucy, the baby would scream in hysterics. Rushing in, she’d find Lucy “tending” to her sister. Once, she caught Lucy pinching Charlotte’s nose, fingers gripping her tiny face. When Lucy saw Eleanor, she let go, and the baby gasped for breath, wailing. Shaking, Eleanor snatched Charlotte up, searching for answers. Lucy just stared—her blue eyes empty, unrepentant.
That evening, William tried speaking to Lucy. After much coaxing, she muttered that she was “just wiping Charlotte’s nose.” The excuse was feeble, but the counselor again urged patience: “She just needs love.” Then came another incident: Eleanor caught Lucy by the cradle with a bottle of boiling water, poised to give it to Charlotte. Again, Lucy watched them in silence. For the first time, Eleanor didn’t see a child—just cold, frightening emptiness.
As time passed, Charlotte grew stronger. Lucy seemed to adjust, but Eleanor never left them alone. That summer, they planned a seaside trip—Lucy’s first. But with baby Charlotte, traveling was too risky, and Eleanor gently explained this. Lucy exploded. She didn’t cry—she howled, thrashing on the floor, fists and feet flying. Terrified, Eleanor couldn’t calm her. To her shock, the counselor saw no issue, praising Lucy for “expressing herself” and advising more attention. The couple exchanged glances—this man had to go.
The night William left on business, Eleanor put Lucy to bed herself. For hours, she read to her, talked, trying to understand her daughter’s mind. She even wondered if she’d been unfair—maybe Lucy was just a wounded child, suffering from jealousy. Then Lucy asked, as if casually, “If Charlotte went away… would you love me more? Would you take me to the sea?” Eleanor’s blood ran cold. Lucy didn’t need a counselor—she needed a psychiatrist.
Exhausted, Eleanor slept fitfully. A noise startled her awake—shuffling near the cradle. Blinking into the dark, she saw Lucy looming over Charlotte, pressing a pillow to her face. Eleanor lunged, tearing the pillow away. Charlotte’s lips were blue, her breath faint. Eleanor wanted to scream, to strike Lucy—but her glare, full of hate, paralyzed her. Then Lucy spoke. She hated Charlotte. She wanted her gone. She would make her disappear. Eleanor sank to the bed, tears streaming. Where had she gone wrong?
More counselors followed, then psychiatrists, desperate attempts to reach Lucy. But she insisted: Charlotte must go, or she would take matters into her own hands. Crushed, Eleanor and William made the unbearable choice. They couldn’t risk Charlotte’s life. Lucy had to return to the children’s home.
Now Eleanor stood by the window, watching William lead Lucy away. The girl stopped, turned, and locked eyes with her through the glass. Her gaze, full of icy fury, struck Eleanor like a blow. She recoiled, sobbing. When she dared look again, the street was empty. Snow fell softly, burying the footprints of their shattered dream.
