belongings.
Inside was the outfit I’d planned to dress her in.
A tiny hat.
And a hospital identification bracelet bearing the name I’d chosen months earlier.
*Lucy.*
I placed that bracelet in a little keepsake box beside my bed.
For years, I couldn’t bring myself to put it away.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d open the box and run my fingers over the faded plastic.
I’d imagine the girl Lucy might have become.
Her first steps.
Her first birthday.
Her first day of school.
I wondered whether she’d have inherited my dark curls or her father’s smile.
I imagined brushing her hair in the mornings and hearing her call me Mommy.
But those were only dreams.
Eventually, I returned to work.
I attended family gatherings.
I learned to smile when friends announced their pregnancies.
From the outside, I seemed to be moving forward.
Inside, part of me remained in that
hospital room.
I never found the courage to try having another child.
The possibility of experiencing the same loss again frightened me too much.
Through those difficult years, my younger sister, Nora, stayed close.
She knew how deeply I missed Lucy.
And I knew she was carrying her own heartbreak.
For eight years, Nora and her husband, Tom, had been trying to have a baby.
They attended medical appointments.
Endured disappointing results.
Watched friends become parents.
And returned home to a house that always seemed painfully quiet.
Sometimes Nora called me after another unsuccessful treatment.
“I don’t understand why this keeps happening,” she’d whisper.
I listened because there wasn’t anything I could say to make it fair.
Eventually, I suggested adoption.
At first, she hesitated.
“What if I can’t love a child who isn’t biologically mine?”
I took her hand.
“Nora, you’ve wanted to be a mother for years. Love
isn’t something a blood test can measure.”
She thought about my words for a long time.
Then she and Tom began exploring the adoption process.
Months passed.
There were interviews, paperwork, home visits, and more waiting.
Finally, they learned about a five-year-old girl named Ellie.
According to the agency, Ellie had entered protective care as an infant.
Her biological parents had never been properly identified.
The available information about her earliest days was incomplete.
Nora and Tom met her.
And almost immediately, something changed.
Nora called me afterward, crying.
“Claire, she’s wonderful.”
