The rain trickled down my windshield, turning the world outside into a blur of colors. I stared at the familiar house—the house where I had once been a mother, where Hazel and I had danced barefoot on the wooden porch, where I had tucked her into bed with whispered lullabies. This was our home.
But now, I was just a visitor. An outsider.
Three years ago, I had no choice but to leave. Cancer had stolen my strength, my hair, my ability to care for my child. Nathan, my husband, had assured me it was only temporary. “She’ll stay with me until you get better,” he had said.
I had believed him. But as months stretched into years, as treatments drained me, and as my hair fell in clumps to the floor, my visits with Hazel grew less frequent.
The first time she saw me after surgery, she looked at me with wide, uncertain eyes.
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
My heart clenched, but I forced a smile. “I got sick, baby. But I’m better now.”
Nathan placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a lot for her to take in. Give her time.”
At first, Hazel sent letters. Brightly colored drawings of cats, sunshine, and hearts.
“I love you, Mommy,” she wrote in crayon.
But over time, the letters came less and less. Phone calls dwindled.
“She’s at practice.”
“She’s with her friends.”
“She’s busy with school.”
Then, silence. No more letters. No more calls. Just an empty inbox and a phone that never rang.
During one of my lowest moments, a thick envelope arrived in the mail. My hands shook as I opened it, my eyes scanning the official papers inside.
Divorce. Custody arrangements. Full guardianship to Nathan.
I had barely finished chemotherapy. I was too weak to fight. Nathan convinced the courts that Hazel needed stability—a home without the fear of a sick mother.
With a shattered heart, I signed the papers.
My lawyer assured me I still had weekends, that I would still be part of her life. But weekends weren’t enough. I wanted my daughter to know that I never left her by choice.
And now, I was back. I had won my battle, fought my way back to her.
I climbed the porch steps, my pulse racing. Before I could knock, the door swung open.
Nathan’s new wife, Sara, stood there, looking flawless as ever. Cool, composed. The woman who had stepped into my place.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m here to pick up Hazel.”
Sara tilted her head slightly, offering a small, pitying smile. “Evelyn… I thought Nathan called you.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Called me about what?”
She sighed. “He took Hazel to the fair.”
My stomach twisted. “But today is my day.”
Sara let out a slow breath. “Evelyn, she doesn’t want to go.”
I stiffened. “That’s not true.”
She lowered her voice, as if speaking to a child. “She doesn’t ask about you anymore. She calls me Mom now.”
The world tilted. No. My baby couldn’t have forgotten me.
Before Sara could say another word, I turned on my heel and rushed to my car. I had to find her.
The fair was alive with color and sound. The scent of caramel apples and roasted nuts filled the air. Children laughed, the carousel spun, and bright lights flickered around me.
I searched desperately, my heart pounding.
“Where is she?” I muttered under my breath.
Then, I saw her. Hazel. Holding Nathan’s hand, wearing a bright red jacket.
“Hazel!”
She looked up, her brown eyes widening.
“Baby, it’s me!” I stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to hold her.
But she didn’t move. She just stared at me.
A cool breeze brushed my scalp. My wig. It was gone.
Hazel’s fingers clutched Nathan’s sleeve tighter. Her lip trembled.
I reached out. “Sweetheart, it’s okay—”
She flinched. Then, in a small, broken voice, she whispered,
“You’re not my mom. You’re just a bald lady.”
The words sliced through me like a knife.
That night, I sat on the floor of my apartment, clutching Hazel’s old teddy bear, my body wracked with silent sobs.
I pulled out the shoebox filled with her old letters, running my fingers over her childish handwriting.
“I love you, Mommy.”
“Can’t wait to see you!”
When did she stop loving me?
Desperate, I grabbed my laptop, scrolling aimlessly. Then, my breath caught.
A post from her school. An art contest.
I clicked on it. Hazel’s submission appeared on the screen.
A sky full of stars.
Tears filled my eyes. It was our story. The one I had told her every night before bed. A little girl who lost her mother but found her way home by following the stars.
She hadn’t forgotten. Not completely.
A spark of hope ignited inside me.
I grabbed my phone and dialed my friend. “I need your help. We have two days to prepare.”
The school auditorium was packed. Parents whispered, teachers shuffled papers, students fidgeted in their seats.
The lights dimmed. The screen flickered. And then, Hazel’s voice filled the room.
Video clips played. Hazel and me baking, running through leaves, spinning on the beach. Her laughter filled the space, warming the cold distance between us.
Gasps rippled through the audience. Hazel sat frozen.
Then, letters filled the screen. Letters I had sent. My voice played over them.
“Hi, my love. It’s Mommy.”
Hazel turned to Sara. “Where are these letters?”
Sara’s face paled. “I thought it was better this way.”
Hazel’s voice shook. “Better to keep my mom away?”
She turned, searching the room. Then she saw me.
And she ran.
I barely had time to open my arms before she crashed into me, gripping me tight.
“Mom,” she whispered.
Tears streamed down my face. “I never left you, sweetheart.”
That night, my little girl found her way home.
