Returned After a Year

I was five when my mother returned upon hearing my father was remarrying. She cornered me outside my preschool, yanking me away before calling my father.
“Adrian, if you marry her, you’ll never see Poppy again!” she threatened. For my proud mother, Elara, this was her olive branch.
But my father’s reply was ice: “It’s over. Bring her back. Now.”
Tears streamed down her face as she screamed, refusing to let me go. To make him regret it, she took me to another city, certain he’d beg us to return.
He didn’t. Instead, he called the police. Unwilling to lose, my mother threatened to take her own life if they took me—her final trump card. Still, he married, and soon his wife was pregnant.
A year later, when the baby was born, the last of my mother’s hope broke. That night, she packed my suitcase, drove me to his house, and left me on the doorstep in the dark.
“Poppy,” she said, hollow, “Mommy needs a new life. Go back to your father.”

1
“Mommy, please don’t leave me…”
I clutched my little backpack, my hand trembling as I reached out to tug on the hem of her dress. I was terrified she would just vanish.
She frowned, yanking her dress free from my grasp. “Poppy, I’m doing this for your own good. I’m moving somewhere else to focus on my career. You can’t have a stable life with me right now.”
I twisted my fingers together, my voice barely a whisper. “But… I haven’t seen Daddy in a whole year. I’m scared he won’t want me anymore.”
Over the past year, after every screaming match she’d had with him on the phone, she would collapse in tears and tell me, “Oh, Poppy, your mother is so useless. Not only did I fail to win your father back, but I made him hate you, too.”
I’d heard it so many times that a cold fear had taken root in my heart: Daddy didn’t want me. I couldn’t let my mother go. I couldn't become one of those kids the grown-ups whispered about, the unwanted ones.
Her patience, always thin, finally snapped. “He’s your father! Of course he’ll want you. Stop filling your head with such nonsense.”
Panic seized me, and the words tumbled out. “But you said it! You’re the one who told me Daddy didn’t want me! You said he has another baby now and that he’d never look back at us…”
Daddy had a new wife, a new baby. If I showed up now… he wouldn’t be happy to see me.
“That’s enough!” Her voice cracked like a whip, her face a mask of irritation. “I told you to stay, so you stay. Not another word!”
I flinched and clamped my mouth shut, watching her with wide, fearful eyes.
She didn't look at me again. She glanced at the expensive watch on her wrist, her tone turning cold and distant. “I have to go. You can knock on the door yourself in a little while.”
With that, she turned and walked away. A gust of cold wind whipped her expensive black dress around her legs.
“Mommy!” I cried out, a knot of pure fear in my throat.
She didn’t turn back. She got in her car and drove away, leaving me utterly alone on the dark, silent street.
I stared at the receding taillights until they disappeared, hot tears of betrayal and confusion finally spilling down my cheeks.
Didn’t she even consider what would happen to me if Dad really didn’t want me? Where was I supposed to go?
I stood there for what felt like an eternity, the cold seeping into my bones until my whole body trembled. I tried to summon the courage to knock, walking up to the heavy oak door several times, but my hand would freeze just inches from the wood.
It was so late. They were probably all asleep. If I knocked now, I’d wake them up—Dad, his new wife, and their newborn baby.
After a long time, I gave up and curled up on the cold stone steps of the porch. I would just wait. I’d knock when the sun came up.
I fought to keep my eyes open, but exhaustion won. My head drooped, and I drifted into a restless sleep.
In a hazy dream, I heard a kind, musical voice.
“Whose little girl are you?”
The voice was close. I blinked my eyes open, my blurry vision focusing on the woman kneeling in front of me. She wore a long, pale blue dress, and her face was gentle and beautiful.
I recognized her instantly.
Miss Claire. The woman my father had married. The woman my mother called the homewrecker who had destroyed our family.
I had seen pictures of her this past year. My mother had hired someone to take them secretly. I remembered watching, hidden in a corner, as my mother screamed curses at the glossy photos before ripping them to shreds, her face twisted with a rage that terrified me.
When she found me crying in the corner, she’d dragged me out. Pointing a shaking finger at a torn picture of Claire, she’d spat, “See her, Poppy? Look closely. This is the bitch who stole your father from us! If it weren’t for her, we’d be a family again! You need to remember this face. She is our enemy for life.”
I had just sobbed and sobbed until I finally nodded, and only then did she let me go.
Now, looking at that same face, a jolt of fear shot through me. I instinctively shrank back, my hands clutching the straps of my backpack.
“Hello, Ma’am,” I mumbled. “I-I’m here to see my daddy.”
Claire froze, her eyes widening as she truly looked at me. “You’re… Poppy?”

2
I quickly looked away, my gaze fixed on the tips of my worn-out shoes. I managed a tiny, almost inaudible, “Mhm.”
Claire was silent for a moment, her expression a mix of emotions I couldn’t decipher. I risked a glance up and saw the complicated look on her face, which only made my heart pound faster. I was sure she was about to tell me to leave.
But then, as if sensing my fear, her gaze softened, a flicker of something—pity? concern?—crossing her features.
“Come inside,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s freezing out here. Your father had to work late last night; he’s not back yet.”
The rejection I’d been bracing for never came. Numbly, I followed her into the warm, bright house.
In the entryway, Claire knelt down and pulled a pair of fluffy pink slippers from a cabinet. “These are new. They’ll be yours from now on.”
Feeling awkward, I nodded and quietly swapped my dirty sneakers for the soft slippers.
She led me into the living room and handed me a warm mug. “You must be frozen through. Drink this ginger tea; it’ll help you warm up.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, taking a small sip.
Claire sat on the couch across from me. She hesitated for a second before asking, “Did you get here last night?”
I pressed my lips together. “Yes. My mommy brought me.”
“She just dropped you off in the middle of the night and left?” Claire’s pretty eyebrows furrowed in a way that looked less like curiosity and more like anger.
I couldn’t lie. I just nodded.
Her frown deepened. She studied me for a long moment, her eyes scanning my slightly dirty dress. “Poppy… does your mother… does she usually not take care of you?”
Her gaze lingered on my dress, and a hot blush crept up my neck. I immediately scrambled to my feet, assuming she thought I was dirtying her pristine couch.
“Mommy’s really busy… she doesn’t have time for me, so my dress…” My voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Miss Claire. I got the sofa dirty.”
I stared at the floor, too ashamed to meet her eyes.
My reaction seemed to startle her. “Poppy, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” she said quickly, a sigh escaping her lips. “Oh, honey…”
She stood up and closed the distance between us, her hand gently taking mine. “Your room is upstairs. Let’s get you into some clean clothes, okay?”
Her hand was so warm. I forgot how to react, simply letting her lead me up the staircase.
As I was changing, Claire noticed the dark bruises on my arm. Her voice was soft, but laced with concern. “Poppy, can you tell me how you got these?”
I looked down at the ugly purple marks and instantly clamped my mouth shut, my free hand gripping the fabric of my new pajamas.
The warmth in Claire’s face vanished, replaced by a steely look, but she didn’t press me further. Just then, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out, and I saw the name on the screen: Adrian.
My mother had taught me how to write my father’s name. I knew it was him.
Claire glanced at me. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said, her voice gentle again. She stepped out onto the balcony to take the call. Her voice was low, but I could still catch a few words.
“…the poor girl was out there all night… so irresponsible…”
“…Okay, just get home as soon as you can.”
I stared blankly at the bruises on my arm, the memory of yesterday flooding back.
My mother was always busy with her own things, leaving me to fend for myself with slices of stale bread. But yesterday, she’d come home early. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wild as she muttered to herself, “Why… why was that baby born healthy? He has another child now. He’s never going to come back for me…”
I didn’t understand her words, but I knew to stay away from her when she was like this. She sank onto the sofa and opened several bottles of red wine, drinking until she was slumped over, completely drunk.
Worried she’d get cold, I grabbed a blanket to cover her. As I approached, her eyes snapped open and focused on me. She scowled and shoved me away with surprising force.
“I don’t need your pity!” she slurred. “Adrian is cruel to me, and you’re his daughter. You’re probably just as rotten!”
“Get away from me! Just get lost!”
The push sent me stumbling backwards. I lost my balance and my arm slammed into the sharp corner of the glass coffee table. The pain was so intense that black spots danced in my vision.
“Mommy, it hurts…” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.
She didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed, and she had already passed out.
When she woke up, it was the middle of the night. Sober now, she ran her hands through her messy hair and began to cry, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“I’m Elara Vance,” she whispered to herself. “Fierce, proud, I love and I hate with everything I have. When did I become some pathetic, bitter woman who can’t live without a man?”

3
After she cried for a while, she made a decision she believed was the right one.
“He’s just a man. If he doesn’t want me, fine. I can’t let him ruin my entire life.”
She pulled herself together, freshening up her makeup. When she looked up and saw me, her gaze faltered. For a brief, chilling moment, she looked at me like I was an obstacle, a roadblock on her path to a new life.
I shrank back into the corner, too scared to make a sound.
She stood there for a long time before finally going to my room and packing my things.
She handed me my backpack, now stuffed with clothes, and knelt down, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Poppy, Mommy is moving far away, and it’s not convenient to take you with me.”
“I’m going to take you to your father’s house. From now on, you’ll live with him, just like you used to.”
Her words were gentle, but it wasn’t a discussion. It was a verdict.
My face went pale. “Mommy, please don’t send me away,” I begged, my voice small. “I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t be any trouble.”
She didn't seem to hear me. She just grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door.
I cried silently in the car the whole way there. I couldn’t understand. She was the one who had taken me away so forcefully. Why was she abandoning me now?
Even now, sitting in this warm, strange house, I still didn’t have an answer.
When Claire came back from her phone call, she saw me staring into space, my face ashen. A look of deep sympathy crossed her face. She found a first-aid kit and gently started treating the bruises on my arm with a soothing balm.
As I watched her tend to me with such delicate care, my nose started to sting. I couldn’t remember my own mother ever being this gentle with me. Elara was always consumed by her own world—plotting against Claire, trying to win Dad back. She rarely paid any attention to me, and when she did, it was usually a cold instruction: “Mommy has things to do. If you’re hungry, there’s bread in the kitchen.”
I looked up at Claire’s kind eyes and soft smile. In that moment, I knew. She was nothing like the monster my mother had described.
A warmth spread through my chest, and I felt my tense little body finally begin to relax. I followed her downstairs and we ate breakfast together.
Just as I was wondering what to do next, the front door swung open.
My father strode in, his face a cold, hard mask. The second he saw me, his brow furrowed, and his eyes grew even colder.
My mother’s words echoed in my head.
“Your father despises us now, Poppy…”
“He has a new child. Where do you think that leaves you?”
I took a fearful step back, hiding myself behind Claire.
My father’s jaw tightened. “What game is she playing now?” he asked, his voice low and laced with a weariness that bordered on disgust. He clearly wanted nothing more to do with my mother.
“I-I don’t know…” I stammered. “Mommy said she’s starting a new life… and that I should live with you again, like before.”
Claire felt me trembling and shot my father a sharp, reproachful look. “What does any of this have to do with Poppy? This is between you adults.” She put a protective arm around my shoulders, her displeasure with him obvious.
His gaze shifted to Claire, and the ice in his eyes melted instantly. The corner of his mouth even lifted into a small smile. “You’re right, Claire. I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say.”
My eyes widened in shock. For as long as I could remember, my father had been a man of stone faces and few words. He’d made sure the nanny took care of me and occasionally asked how preschool was, but he had never, ever smiled at me.
But here he was, smiling at Claire.
She gave him a look that was still stern but softening. “You should know better. Don’t walk around the house with that scowl all the time. You’re scaring Poppy.”
He nodded, his voice softer. “I know.” He walked over, gave Claire a quick hug, and then looked down at me. I tensed, bracing myself.
“You’re six now,” he said, his tone business-like. “It’s time for first grade. I’ve already enrolled you in a school. Robert will start taking you tomorrow morning.”

4
School?
For a second, I just stared at him. Then, a thrill of excitement shot through me. I could go to school?
“Thank you… Daddy,” I said, the word feeling strange and foreign on my tongue. I watched his face carefully, terrified I might say something to upset him.
He didn’t look at me again, simply calling Claire to go upstairs with him.
I sat alone on the living room sofa, a huge grin spreading across my face. I was finally going to school.
For the entire year I was with my mother, I had been a prisoner in whatever apartment we were staying in. She wouldn’t let me go to preschool, paranoid that my father would find me and take me away. My days were long, empty, and suffocatingly boring.
Now, finally, I was going back to school.
That night, after dinner, I lay in the big, soft bed, too excited to sleep. I kept checking my new backpack, making sure all my pencils and notebooks were perfectly in place.
The next day, I left for school bursting with happiness. I came home with my head hung low.
Claire noticed my mood immediately. “What’s wrong, Poppy?” she asked, her voice full of concern. “Did you not like your new school? Or did you have trouble making friends?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that…”
“Well, what is it then?” She glanced at my father, silently urging him to say something.
He put down the file he was reading and turned to me. Noticing I was hiding something behind my back, he asked in his usual stern tone, “What are you holding? Let me see.”
I bit my lip and slowly brought my hands forward. The paper in my hand was covered in big, angry red X’s.
Claire took the test from me and, after a quick look, passed it to my father.
He scanned the page, his expression turning sour. “How could you do this poorly? What have you been—I mean, have you not learned anything this past year?”
He’d caught himself, changing his words under Claire’s sharp glare.
I twisted my hands in my lap, explaining in a small voice, “Mommy wouldn’t let me go to preschool…”
Today at school, I’d realized just how far behind I was. I couldn’t understand most of what the teacher was saying.
Claire fell silent. For a moment, her eyes looked sad, as if she was thinking of something painful. My father said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was much softer.
“One bad test doesn’t mean anything. I’ll hire a tutor for you starting tomorrow. You’ll catch up in no time.”
A wave of relief washed over me. I nodded happily. My father wasn't the scary, heartless man my mother had made him out to be. He was actually very good to me.
The tutor arrived the next day. Claire, still worried, sat in on the first few lessons. Only when she was certain I could understand everything did she relax.
Life settled into a happy new rhythm. One afternoon, I came home from school, skipping, and saw my baby sister for the first time. She was lying in her bassinet in the living room, dressed in a tiny pink onesie, sleeping peacefully. A group of women—Claire’s friends—were gathered around.
“She’s so perfect, Claire! So quiet and calm.”
Claire smiled, her eyes filled with a soft, maternal love as she gazed at her daughter.
Trying not to wake the baby, I tiptoed over. “Hi, Claire. Why is the baby downstairs today?”
I had learned shortly after arriving that my sister had been sick since she was born and had been kept upstairs to recover. This was the first time I had ever laid eyes on her.
Claire gently stroked my hair. “Because she’s all better now. She doesn’t have to stay cooped up in her room anymore.”
I nodded, fascinated by the tiny, sleeping baby. I was so engrossed I didn’t notice the atmosphere in the room suddenly turn cold.
“So that’s the one the psycho left behind?” one of the women said in a stage whisper.
“You should be careful, Claire,” another added. “Don’t forget what that woman did to you. Because of her, you almost died in childbirth. Who knows what ideas she’s put in this one’s head.”

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