**Diary Entry**
Love shouldn’t come with conditions, but for my sister, it did. Without a shred of remorse, she abandoned her adopted daughter the moment she had a biological son. When I questioned her cruelty, she simply shrugged and said, “She wasn’t really mine, anyway.” But fate had already begun its work.
Some moments leave you breathless, as if the air has been ripped from your lungs. For me, it was hearing my sister utter four cold words about four-year-old Sophie: “I gave her back.”
We hadn’t seen Rebecca in months. She lived across the Midlands, and with her pregnancy, we gave her space. But when she had little Oliver, the family decided to visit. The car was packed with gifts—a plush bear for Sophie tucked carefully among them.
Pulling up to Rebecca’s terraced house in Leeds, I noticed the garden was different. The little pink scooter Sophie adored was gone. So were the daffodils we’d planted last spring.
Rebecca answered the door, cradling a bundle in her arms. “Meet Oliver!” she beamed, turning him toward us.
We murmured our congratulations. Mum reached for him instantly; Dad snapped photos. But my eyes flicked around the room—no crayon drawings on the fridge, no tiny wellies by the door.
“Where’s Sophie?” I asked, clutching her gift.
Rebecca’s smile faltered. She exchanged a glance with her partner, James, who suddenly busied himself with the telly remote.
Then, casually, she said, “Oh, I gave her back.”
My grip tightened. “What do you mean?”
Dad lowered the camera. The air turned thick.
“I always wanted a boy,” Rebecca sighed, as if it were obvious. “Now I’ve got Oliver. And Sophie was only adopted—she wasn’t really ours.”
“She called you *Mum* for two years!” I shouted, the teddy bear tumbling from my hands.
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “She’ll adjust. The agency found her a new family.”
I remembered all the times she’d gushed about Sophie—brushing her hair, reading her bedtime stories, declaring, “Family isn’t about blood.”
“What changed?” I demanded. “You fought for her! You cried the day the adoption was final.”
“That was before,” she said dismissively. “Oliver needs all my attention now.”
I thought of my own losses—miscarriages that had hollowed me out. Sophie had filled that ache with her laughter, her tiny hand in mine, calling me “Auntie Clara.” And Rebecca had tossed her aside like yesterday’s news.
Before I could argue further, a knock sounded. James opened the door to two stern-faced people in crisp suits.
“Ms. Rebecca?” The woman held up a badge. “I’m Margaret, from Social Services. We’ve received concerns about your adoption dissolution and need to discuss Oliver’s welfare.”
Rebecca paled. “What? He’s *my* son!”
“We’ll need to assess his environment,” the man added.
I watched, numb, as they laid out their concerns—rushed paperwork, lack of counselling, complaints from neighbours. Rebecca’s voice rose in panic. “You can’t take him!”
Then it hit her. The irony.
I should’ve pitied her. Instead, all I could think of was Sophie.
I spent weeks calling agencies, hiring a solicitor. Mum rang daily with updates: “Social Services spoke to the neighbours—Rebecca’s fuming.”
Finally, my solicitor called. “Sophie’s still in care,” she said. “If you want custody, now’s the time.”
That night, I pored over photos—Sophie bundled in snow, grinning with cake on her cheeks. “I’m coming, love,” I whispered.
The process was gruelling—background checks, home visits. I painted the spare room lilac, her favourite colour. Dad built a bookshelf; Mum stitched a quilt with her name.
At the Family Centre, Sophie sat at a tiny table, drawing. She looked smaller. When she saw me, her eyes lit—then dimmed with hesitation.
“Auntie Clara?” she whispered.
I knelt, arms open. She flew into them.
“Why did Mummy leave me?” she asked later, clutching my sleeve. “Was I bad?”
My heart cracked. “No, sweetheart. Grown-ups make mistakes. But I’m here now—for good.”
Months later, the judge finalised the adoption. Sophie threw her arms around me. “We did it, Mummy!”
That word—*Mummy*—unlocked something in me.
Life wasn’t perfect. Sophie had nightmares, hid biscuits under her pillow. But we worked through it—with patience, love, and a brilliant therapist.
As for Rebecca? Social Services closed their case, though she had mandatory parenting classes.
But me? I got everything.
Sophie turned six last week. She played in the garden, weaving daisy chains while my husband, Thomas, helped her friends build stick forts. Mum brought out a cake shaped like a unicorn.
I watched, clutching a framed school photo beside her old crayon drawing—three stick figures, now dotted with hearts.
She’s home. Where she always belonged.
Funny, isn’t it? The family you choose—the one you fight for—often means more than blood ever could. And sometimes, life has a way of setting things right.
