For nearly thirty years, our house stayed tidy and silent. We traveled a little. We worked. We built routines. We learned how to be content—but there was always a soft, hollow space inside me, a place where a child should have been.
For illustrative purposes only
One morning changed everything.
I was sitting outside with a few neighbors, sharing coffee and idle gossip, when one woman—Margaret, who worked part-time at the local orphanage—started talking about a little girl no one wanted.
“She’s been there since she was a baby,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Five years old now. Sweet child. Quiet. Polite. But no one even asks about her anymore.”
“Why?” someone asked.
Margaret hesitated. “She has a birthmark. On her shoulder. People see it and… well. They say it’s a bad sign. That it’ll scare other kids. Or that something must be wrong with her.”
