**Diary Entry**
I stood by the window, watching from above as my husband walked away, holding a little girls hand our daughter. Our *former* daughter. Any moment now, the car door would slam shut, the engine would start, and it would carry them both awayonly for him to return alone. Bitter tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto the crown of my one-year-olds head. She whimpered, squirming in my arms, but I only held her tighter, my heart crushed by pain, shame, and regret.
Wed tried for a baby for years, but it never happened. Adopting from a childrens home felt like the natural choiceone wed agreed on easily. The hard part was actually going through with it. I still remember our visit, how the childrens wary eyes followed us, filled with hope and fear.
Lydia caught my heart straight away, even though my husband had hoped for a boy. Blonde braids, enormous blue eyesshe looked so much like my late mother at eleven years old that it made my chest ache. And Lydia warmed to us too, always delighted when we visited.
Then came the shock. The director told us Lydia was what they called a “forever child.” Four times, shed been adopted. Four times, shed been returned. I didnt ask whyit didnt matter. My heart just broke for her, a little girl repeatedly abandoned by the people shed dared to call parents.
While we waited for the paperwork, we brought Lydia home more often. She had her own room in our two-bed flata luxury for a child used to sharing everything. She thrived on the love we gave her, soaking it up like sunlight.
Then came the miracle. I found out I was pregnant. People say it happens sometimesfamilies who adopt are blessed with a child of their own. We were overjoyed, but we never once considered undoing the adoption. We loved Lydia too much.
Time passed. The adoption was approved, and Lydia left the childrens homeor so we thought, forever. At eleven, she was old enough to understand, so the psychologist helping her adjust urged us to tell her about the baby.
We did. It was more of a monologue, really. As we took turns explaining, Lydia just listened, wide-eyed, shifting her solemn gaze between us. We promised wed love her just the same, that nothing would change. But when we mentioned shed eventually share her room, her expression hardened. She turned and left without a word.
After that, Lydia changed. She clung to us obsessively, arms locked tight around our necks, pressing in so hard it felt like she wanted to choke us. Her eyes would glaze over, teeth grinding. *”I love you, Mummy,”* shed saymore and more often.
I hugged her back, kissed her, reassured her. But my husband grew uneasy. The psychologist dismissed itLydia was just afraid of losing our attention.
Then little Emily arrived. She was premature, fussy, demanding every second of my time. To spare Lydia, we kept the cot in our room. I was stretched thin, exhausted by nightfall. My husband helped where he couldtaking Lydia to school, reading bedtime stories. At first, nothing seemed amiss.
But then I noticedwhenever I left Emily alone with Lydia, the baby would scream hysterically. Id rush in to find Lydia hovering over her, all innocence. Until the day I caught her pinching Emilys nose shut.
I snatched Emily up, my voice trembling as I asked Lydia what she was doing. She just stared at me, silent. Later, my husband coaxed a feeble excuse out of hershe was just wiping Emilys nose.
The psychologist brushed it off again. Then came the next warning: Lydia tried to feed Emily boiling formula. Looking into her beautiful blue eyesso like my mothersI saw no love. Just emptiness.
Months passed. Emily grew calmer; Lydia seemed to accept her. Then summer came. Wed promised Lydia a seaside holidayher first ever. But with a baby, it was impossible.
That night, Lydia snapped. She shrieked like a wounded animal, thrashing on the floor. I was terrified. Yet the psychologist still saw nothing wrong.
Later, as I tucked Lydia in, we talked for hours. I started to blame myselfmaybe Id misjudged her. Until she asked, *casually*, what would happen if Emily disappeared. Would we love her more? Would we still go to the seaside?
I answered carefully, but my blood ran cold.
I woke to rustling. Lydia was pressing a pillow over Emilys face.
I wrenched her away, clutching Emilypale, gasping. When our eyes met, all I saw was hatred.
*”I hate her,”* Lydia seethed. *”Ill make her go away.”*
Counselors, psychiatristsnothing worked. Lydia demanded we get rid of Emily, or she would.
Now, I watch my husband lead her awayback to the home.
Lydia turned. Looked straight at our window. I flinched, stumbling back in tears.
When I dared to look again, they were gone. The snow had already covered their footprints.
