“Mummy, when will the fairy give me a daddy?” my daughter asked one day, gazing up at me with wide eyes filled with more hope than I could bear. We often played make-believe—drawing pictures, inventing stories. That day, she pulled a sheet of paper from her toy box, a little girl in the drawing chatting with a tiny fairy. Then she found another sketch: the same girl doing exercises, laughing.
“This is me doing my stretches, Mummy!” she said brightly, splashing herself with imaginary water before drifting off to sleep.
That moment made me realise just how unpredictable life can be. But let me start from the beginning.
Years ago, I enrolled in teacher training college alongside my best friend, Emily. We were inseparable—studying together, staying up all night, dreaming of the future. After graduation, we both became schoolteachers. Emily also illustrated children’s books; her talent was extraordinary, her imagination boundless. Publishers abroad noticed her work, and one day, she was offered a contract in the States. She left—for three long years. We wrote, we called, we missed each other terribly.
When Emily returned to her hometown of Manchester, she wasn’t alone. With her was a little girl—her daughter. She never spoke of the father. By then, her parents were gone. She raised the child alone, doing her best, while I stayed close to help. Lily was a ray of sunshine. In her free time, Emily would sketch—always her daughter, at every stage of life: as a schoolgirl, a teenager, a grown woman. I marvelled at how vividly she could picture the future.
“How do you know what she’ll look like?” I’d ask.
“You’ll see,” she’d reply with a smile.
But joy doesn’t last. When Lily turned two, Emily’s heart gave out. Years abroad had worsened her health, and one day, she was simply gone.
I began adoption papers immediately. My greatest fear was strangers taking Lily away—that I might be too late. But fate was kind. From then on, I was her mother. She knew her real mum lived among the stars. We’d look through Emily’s sketches before bed, the drawings soothing her, as if her mother were still near.
Lily grew up bright, kind, full of dreams. Then, on my fortieth birthday, I came home from a café celebration to find a tall man with a strong American accent at my doorstep. His English was rough, but his words left me trembling.
He was… Lily’s father. Her real one. An American. He explained that Emily had left him years ago, believing he’d betrayed her, never mentioning her pregnancy. He’d searched too late. By the time he learned he had a daughter, he’d filed for custody—but I’d acted faster. He never imagined Lily had grown up here, safe in my care.
When Lily overheard, she stood frozen, studying his face for traces of herself. Over tea, she began to smile. He left for his hotel, and later, she clutched her fairy doll, whispering,
“Thank you, fairy, for bringing me a daddy.”
Months passed before everything settled. Lily moved to America to live with him. He had three other children, but as the eldest, she quickly bonded with them. She started school, learned the language, took dance classes. We still talk, sharing updates over video calls.
I miss her—achingly. But I’m happy.
Happy that my Emily left behind not just a wonderful daughter, but a love so strong it drew her father back to her, even after all these years.
A story almost too extraordinary to believe. Yet like the best fairy tales, it reminds us: faith, love, and miracles are real.
