When my childhood friend Emily got pregnant, her husband demanded they send their adopted daughter back to the orphanage.
I’ve known Emily since we were in nappies. We grew up together, went to the same school, shared dreams and heartaches. When she married Richard, I was over the moon for her. They’d been married eight long years but hadn’t managed to have children of their own.
Countless doctor’s appointments drained their energy and savings, yet no answers came—just baffled shrugs from the doctors, who insisted both were perfectly healthy. They nearly went down the IVF route but, before committing, decided to visit a children’s home instead.
Among the tiny souls desperate for love, Emily’s heart clenched. I saw the tears in her eyes as she watched the little ones. Richard, though—well, he never warmed on me. Cold, moody, always wrapped up in himself, though no one could deny he adored Emily.
When the time came to choose a child, Richard suddenly refused to go back. Emily was in floods, lost and uncertain. So I went instead—to be her rock in the storm.
Every visit to the children’s home felt like a punch to the gut. Emily pored over files, studied photos, asked my opinion. But how could I advise? Picking a child isn’t like grabbing the last biscuit from the tin.
I suggested she narrow it down to three kids and speak to the director. She picked two girls and a boy—only to be told two had already been adopted. The last one? A little girl named Alice.
Then life threw me a curveball—my mum fell seriously ill, and I had to dash off to the countryside. My calls with Emily became rushed, half-hearted as I juggled hospital visits and worry.
Meanwhile, Emily threw herself into visiting Alice, gathering paperwork for adoption. By the time I returned to London three months later, she was nearly at the finish line—one last document, and Alice would be theirs.
Alice was sharp as a tack for her age, though one eye had a slight lazy turn—a souvenir from her birth parents’ drunken chaos before their rights were stripped away.
The first few weeks at home were rough. Alice refused meals, wailed through the night, had meltdowns that left Richard shell-shocked. He hadn’t realised love for a child isn’t automatic—sometimes it’s earned through patience and time.
Then came the shock: Emily discovered she was pregnant.
And just like that, Richard—without an ounce of shame—demanded they send Alice back to the orphanage. After all, why keep a “spare” child when they’d soon have a “real” one?
The row that followed could’ve woken the neighbours in Cornwall. Emily flat-out refused. She packed Alice up and moved in with me for a week.
That week was hell. Alice was a mess, confused why she was in yet another strange place. Emily barely slept, terrified to leave her alone for even a second.
After seven days, Emily decided to go home, hoping Richard had cooled off. But the second they stepped inside, he erupted. He raged that Alice would ruin their family, that he wouldn’t live in a house of tantrums and tears.
The stress sent Emily into threatened miscarriage. She was rushed to hospital on bed rest, leaving Alice with me—because God knows Richard would’ve had her back at the orphanage before tea time.
Three weeks alone with Alice nearly broke me. The poor girl was a bundle of mistrust and tears, another trauma stacked on the pile.
Emily and Alice stayed with me until the baby came. When little Oliver was born, Richard issued an ultimatum: return Alice or he’d leave.
Emily chose Alice.
Richard packed his bags. On the doorstep, with one last glance at his wife and newborn son, he muttered, “You won’t last a day without me.”
But Emily proved him wrong. She filed for divorce and the lot.
Richard didn’t fight. He signed over his share of the flat, left her the business, the savings—the whole kit and caboodle.
Two years on, he stops by to see Oliver, drops off presents, takes him on weekends. But Alice? She might as well be air. The girl feels it—that familiar sting—whenever his eyes slide past her.
Emily never makes a fuss. She shields Alice from the harsh truths as best she can. Alice calls her “Mum,” and that love—well, it’s the only prize Emily ever needed.
Family isn’t about blood. It’s who stays when the storm hits.
Now, every night, as she tucks the kids in, Emily whispers into the dark:
“We made it.”
And just like that, her heart feels a little lighter.