The rain drizzled against my windshield, obscuring my view of the house. My house. Or at least, it used to be. It was the place where I once rocked Hazel to sleep, where we twirled to music in the kitchen, where she would run into my arms without hesitation.
Now, I felt like a visitor—a stranger knocking on the door.
Three years ago, cancer had stolen more than my health; it had taken my daughter. I had no choice but to leave her in Nathan’s care while I fought for my life. He promised it was temporary, that as soon as I was better, I could bring her home.
I believed him.
But as my body weakened from chemotherapy, so did my connection with Hazel.
The first time she saw me after surgery, she hesitated.
“What happened to you?” she whispered, her tiny fingers gripping the hem of her dress.
I forced a smile through the ache in my chest. “I got sick, baby. But I’m better now.”
Nathan placed a hand on my shoulder, his voice gentle. “It’s a lot for her. She just needs time.”
At first, Hazel wrote me letters—messy, colorful scribbles of hearts and stars. “I love you, Mommy.”
But then, the letters stopped.
The calls became infrequent.
“She’s busy with school.”
“She’s at a friend’s house.”
“She just fell asleep.”
Then, nothing.
And then—an envelope. Cold, impersonal. No letter inside, just legal papers. Divorce. Custody arrangements. Full guardianship granted to Nathan.
I had barely finished treatment, still weak and fragile. Nathan convinced the courts that Hazel needed stability, a home without uncertainty, a life free from the unpredictability of a sick mother.
And just like that, he won.
But I fought. I healed. And now, I was here.
I climbed the steps and knocked.
The door swung open, but it wasn’t Nathan.
Sara stood before me, her expression smooth, polite, and pitying—the woman who had stepped into my place.
I straightened. “I’m here for Hazel.”
Sara tilted her head. “Oh, Evelyn… I thought Nathan called you.”
My stomach twisted. “Called me about what?”
“He took Hazel to the fair.”
My breath caught. “Today is my day.”
Sara sighed, as if explaining something to a child. “Evelyn… she doesn’t want to go.”
My throat tightened. “That’s not true.”
“She doesn’t ask about you anymore.” A pause, and a small, satisfied smile spread across her face. “She calls me Mom now.”
The world tilted.
I didn’t even hear my response, didn’t feel my legs carrying me back to my car. All I knew was one thing: I had to find her.
I had to bring my daughter back to me.
The fairgrounds pulsed with life—carnival lights flickering, the scent of caramel apples thick in the air. Laughter swirled around me, but I barely noticed.
I searched frantically, my pulse hammering.
Then, I saw her.
Hazel.
My baby.
She stood near the carousel, her small hand clutching Nathan’s sleeve. My heart clenched.
I moved toward her, my steps quick and desperate.
“Hazel!”
She turned, blinking up at me.
“Baby, it’s me!”
But she didn’t run to me. She didn’t smile.
She only… stared.
And then, I noticed the looks. The murmurs.
A breeze brushed my scalp.
My wig.
It was gone.
I stood frozen, exposed and raw under the harsh carnival lights.
Hazel’s fingers curled into Nathan’s jacket. Her lip trembled.
I took a step forward. “Sweetheart, it’s okay—”
She flinched.
Then, in a small, hesitant voice, she whispered the words that shattered me.
“You’re not my mom… You’re just a bald lady.”
I felt the world drop out from under me.
That night, I sat on the floor of my dimly lit apartment, clutching Hazel’s old stuffed bear, my body wracked with silent sobs.
She didn’t recognize me.
I had once known everything about her—her favorite bedtime story, the way she liked her sandwiches, the songs she hummed when she was deep in thought.
And now, she looked at me like a stranger.
Desperate, I grabbed a shoebox filled with old letters. My fingers traced her handwriting.
“I love you, Mommy!”
“I miss you!”
“You’re the best!”
I closed my eyes, breathing through the pain. When did she stop loving me?
Mindlessly, I scrolled through my laptop, searching for anything to distract myself.
And then, I saw it.
A school art contest.
My breath caught.
Hazel’s submission—a painting of a dark sky full of stars.
Tears blurred my vision.
It was our story. The one I used to tell her every night. The tale of a little girl who found her way home by following the stars.
She hadn’t forgotten.
Not completely.
I grabbed my phone.
“Meet me tomorrow. We have two days.”
The school auditorium was packed. Parents whispered, teachers shuffled papers. I stood near the entrance, my heart pounding. This was it.
I scanned the front row.
Hazel sat beside Sara, their hands intertwined.
My stomach clenched. Please, baby, remember me.
The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.
Gasps rippled through the audience.
A video played—Hazel, a few years younger, sitting on my kitchen counter, flour dusting her cheeks.
“Mommy, look! I made a smiley face!”
I laughed in the video. “It’s the cutest cookie I’ve ever seen!”
More clips followed: us on the beach, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck, her shrieking laughter as I spun her