**Belated Regret**
Emily never particularly dreamed of having a second child. She and James already had a seven-year-old son, and the thought of returning to sleepless nights, nappies, and crying babies didn’t appeal to her at all. Besides, her career was finally taking off. She had just clawed her way back from maternity leave, and now—another pregnancy. But James, annoyingly, had always longed for a daughter, and now that it had happened, backing out seemed impossible.
The little girl was born strikingly beautiful—delicate features, a tiny nose, rosebud lips, and most of all, deep blue eyes like cornflowers in a summer meadow. Looking into them, you couldn’t help but smile—but soon everything changed. Doctors delivered crushing news: the baby had a congenital heart defect. She would need long-term treatment, possibly major surgery, constant monitoring. Their lives would be upended.
Emily listened, feeling her world collapse. What about the glamorous work events, holidays abroad, expensive gym memberships, all-night parties, and spa weekends with her girlfriends? She wasn’t ready to give all that up. Not at twenty-eight. James listened—and agreed far too quickly. They decided to give the child up. To relatives and friends, they said the baby had died at birth.
Margaret had worked as a carer in a children’s home for twenty-five years. You’d think she’d have grown immune, but every abandoned child still wounded her heart like the first. This tiny blue-eyed girl, with her bright gaze and fragile soul, was especially hard to bear.
The little one adored Margaret from the start—reaching out, giggling, touching her face with tiny hands. Margaret often found herself thinking, *Our own children are grown and gone. It’s just me and John now. We’re still strong, have our home, our garden, fresh air, the countryside… Why not?*
She spoke to her husband. John came to the home, looked at the girl, blinked rapidly, and said, “Your call, Margaret. If you can manage the treatment, I’m with you. We’ll sort the money somehow.”
“I can manage, John, I can!” She squeezed his hand.
“We’ll call her Faith. So she’ll have the strength to keep fighting. The name suits her destiny,” John said before walking away.
And so Faith found a real family. Life was hard—hospitals, tests, rehab, specialist clinics. Margaret spent nights by her bedside, days poring over medical books, begging doctors for advice. John worked tirelessly, grew thin, his hair turned grey—but the moment Faith ran to him and hugged him, his face lit up like spring blossoms.
Faith grew up kind and bright, beloved by everyone—from elderly neighbours to little children. She helped however she could. Once, at five, she proudly carried two ears of corn to old Mrs. Dawson, leading the way: “Feel better now?”
“Oh yes, love—you’re my little ray of sunshine,” the old woman chuckled.
When the time for surgery came, the whole village prayed. The operation succeeded. Faith survived—her heart and spirit saved.
Years passed. Faith graduated top of her class and got into medical school. One April afternoon, she strolled through a blossoming park, imagining her upcoming May bank holiday visit home—helping her mum in the garden, sipping herbal tea in the summerhouse.
Then something soft hit her leg—a stuffed rabbit. Nearby, a boy and a polished, well-dressed woman sat on a bench.
“Why did you throw him?” Faith asked.
“’Cause he’s sick! He’ll die anyway!” the boy snapped.
Faith faltered. The woman sighed. “Sorry. He has a heart condition. His parents… don’t want him. He lives with me. My grandson.”
Faith studied her. Beautiful, elegant, but her eyes—empty, hollow. Wanting to comfort her, Faith shared her own story—how she was born with a bad heart, how she was adopted, how her parents fought to save her.
The woman went deathly pale. It was Emily.
She stared, unable to look away. This was her daughter. Those cornflower eyes, James’s features—everything screamed recognition. Her heart pounded, breath ragged.
“It can’t be…” she whispered.
“Anything’s possible!” Faith beamed. “If you want it, believe, and fight—you’ll make it. My mum and dad saved me. You can do it too! Good luck!”
She walked on, leaving Emily shattered on the bench, trembling with realization. This was the daughter she had abandoned—for career, parties, freedom. But that freedom had never come. James left her, their son grew wild—booze, fights, a meaningless life. His wife fled, leaving a sick grandson behind.
Emily wanted to run after her, scream *“I’m your mother!”*—but she didn’t dare. She had forfeited that right long ago.
And Faith walked on, smiling at the sky, unaware she had just healed another broken heart.
