The words hit her like a physical blow. She just nodded, quietly, and left. And then—nothing. Weeks turned into months. No calls, no messages. I told myself she was just angry, that she needed space. But guilt gnawed at me constantly.
One rainy morning, unable to take it anymore, I drove to her flat. The door was unlocked.
When I stepped inside, I froze.
The living room was filled with boxes, pastel ribbons, and what looked like dozens of tiny baby clothes scattered across the floor. For a terrifying moment, I thought she’d finally broken under the weight of loneliness and the years she’d sacrificed for me.
Then she looked up. Her eyes were wet, but her smile was soft.
“Surprise,” she whispered.
She told me that for the past few months, she’d been fostering a little girl—a shy, quiet five-year-old who’d lost her parents in an accident, just the way we once had. She didn’t want to tell me until she knew the adoption would be approved.
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