When I dropped her off, she grabbed my wrist.
“Do not adopt that girl.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s wrong. There’s something off about her. I can feel it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m begging you, Claire. Find another child.”
I pulled my hand away. “I’m adopting Diane. She needs a home. And I need her.”
Eleanor’s face twisted with anger. “If you do this, I will fight you. I’ll call the agency. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. I’ll make sure you never pass a home study.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me.”
She slammed the car door and stormed inside.
And she tried.
She called the agency and claimed I was mentally unfit. She hired a lawyer. She showed up at my house screaming that I was “trying to replace Dylan.”
But I didn’t back down.
Six months later, Diane officially became my daughter.
Eleanor cut us off completely.
I was hurt—but also relieved.
Diane brought life back into my home.
There was laughter again. Music. Just enough teenage sarcasm to remind me I wasn’t alone.
At first, she was guarded. But slowly, she opened up.
We cooked together. Watched movies. Planted flowers in the garden.
For the first time in months, I felt whole.
But there was one thing she never let go of.
An old, worn backpack.
She carried it everywhere.
“What’s in there?” I asked once.
“Just stuff,” she replied quickly.
“Can I see?”
“No. It’s private.”
I didn’t push.
Everyone deserves their secrets.
SEE NEXT……..
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