After years of pain and quiet dinners where no one had the guts to say “what if,” Simon and Claire’s fertility treatments came to an end. They had lost something with each surgery—money, energy, hope—and even though they were told over and over to “just keep trying,” they all agreed that they couldn’t keep on like this. It wasn’t only about having a child. It was about getting past the anguish of not having one.
Adoption has always been an option that people don’t talk about, like a music you hear but don’t know the words to. But after years of being let down, it was the last song they had. They understood when they saw Sophie, who was just four years old, had unkempt hair, and had eyes that were too smart for her age. Not with certainty or blind faith, but with something deeper: recognition. Simon later said it was like meeting someone he had loved his whole life but didn’t realize it.
The first time Sophie ran into Simon’s arms, she didn’t call him anything. She just kept holding on. Tight. She seemed to realize that this might be her last chance to fit in. Simon, who was shocked, dropped down on one knee and said, “You’re safe now.” She didn’t say anything, but the way she hung on to him made it plain that she understood everything he said.
In those early days, there were rituals to follow, like reading before bed and taking a bath, eating cereal with too much milk in the morning, bringing backpacks full of crayons, and saying goodbye nervously at preschool. Sophie was careful; she paid attention to everything and felt everything. Claire smiled and tried her best, but there was a subtle strain under her eyes from the outset. She would hold Sophie like she was a china doll. Say “sweetie” in a way that seemed a little too strained.
Simon saw it but told himself it will go away. Adoption wasn’t just a gift; it was also a new beginning. And everyone handles it in their own way.
But the stress didn’t go away.
Claire began to pull back. She stopped helping with the nightly chores. She would crank up the TV when Sophie cried. Her smile got tight and impatient. The mess in the playroom that used to make her laugh now bruised her jaw. She was slowly sliding away from both of them, one cold stare at a time.
Then came the day when everything went wrong.
Claire had put her wedding dress in a wooden trunk in the guest room. Sophie had found it by accident while looking for art supplies. She thought she was doing something meaningful. She had seen mothers in movies wear nice dresses and dance around. She wanted to surprise Claire to make her happy. She painted a glittering flower on the bottom of the skirt using her little watercolors.
When Claire found it, something inside her broke.
She screamed. Not just out of frustration, but also out of fury. Sophie screamed loudly and harshly, which made her fall back, drop the paintbrush, and cry. Claire muttered something harsh and quick: “Do you know what you’ve done?” That was the best thing I own! Her hands and speech were wobbly.
Simon rushed in and found Claire standing erect and Sophie collapsed. He quickly pulled his daughter close.
At that point, Claire whispered the words that would end their marriage.
“She goes,” she said. “I do.”
Simon stayed still. He didn’t ask for anything. He only looked at Claire for a second and remarked, “I guess you’ve made your choice.”
Claire left that night.
No hug. Not a farewell. The door shut, and the noise it created echoed.
In the weeks that followed, their house was calm again, but not like it had been before. This time, it was the stillness of being sad. Sophie didn’t get it all. She wanted to know when “Mom” would come back. She stood near the window on the weekends. For a while, she stopped coloring. The nights were the worst. That’s when the questions came in a whisper: “Was it my fault?” Did I ruin everything?
Simon felt his heart break every time. He hugged her, calmed her down, and sang softly to her as he used to when she first arrived there. Over time, the shadows began to fade. Slowly. She started coloring again. She thought cartoons were funny. She didn’t think about it and started calling Simon “Daddy.” And in the end, she didn’t stand by the window anymore.
Months later, Claire got in touch. She said that she was too much. She claimed she wanted to try again and be a family again. She talked about “therapy” and “healing.” Simon has cradled a little girl with a broken heart too many times for her to go through that kind of suffering again.
They met up at a coffee shop. Claire looked different—she seemed more tired and softer around the edges. She said all the right things, but Simon had already made up his mind when she left and didn’t look back.
“You didn’t just leave me,” he said in a hushed voice. “You abandoned her. And I won’t let anyone hurt her like that again.
Claire didn’t fight back. She only nodded, a tear running down her cheek, and left.
A year later, Sophie still has scars. You can’t see them from the outside, but they’re there. People yelling at her still makes her jump. She still checks the door twice to see whether Daddy is there. But she’s laughing again. Having faith. Growing larger. Getting better.
Every night before bed, she still asks the same thing. It’s a habit now. “Will you ever leave me, Daddy?” she asked in a soft, dreamy voice.
Simon always says the same thing, too. Without ceasing. He doesn’t think about it before he answers.
“Not now, baby.” “Never.”
Love that is real never goes away.
Real love lasts.