The first time I met Sophie, she ran straight into my arms—tiny, wide-eyed,

smelling of baby shampoo and grass. Claire and I had fought for this

moment through years of heartbreak and failed pregnancies. Adoption

brought new hope, and finally, Sophie was ours. Sitting with the social

worker, Sophie on my lap, Claire holding my hand, we heard the words

we had longed for: “You’re officially parents.” But just weeks later,

everything shifted. One quiet evening, Sophie clung to me in fear. “I don’t want to leave, Daddy,”

she whispered. I promised her she was home. Then Claire appeared, arms

folded, face cold. “We need to talk,” she said. She wanted to give Sophie back.

Claire accused our daughter—only four—of being manipulative, of ruining

everything, even her wedding dress. “Either she goes, or I do,”

she said. I chose Sophie. Claire left that night. The woman who once swore

she wanted this, who had held Sophie and promised forever, was gone.

Three weeks later, she wanted to return. “I made a mistake,” she said.

But I couldn’t forget what she had done—or what Sophie had suffered.

“You didn’t just leave me,” I told her. “You left her.” She cried.

I stood firm. One year later, Sophie still clings to me when she’s scared,

still flinches at raised voices. But she laughs more now. She’s learning

to believe in love that stays. Last night, as I tucked her in, she whispered,

“You won’t leave me, Daddy?” “Never,” I promised. She sighed, curling into me. Finally safe. Finally home.