I had adopted a young girl from an orphanage… but on the very day of her sixteenth birthday, strangers appeared, claiming that she had been kidnapped years ago.
— Maybe it’s a sign? — Élise stopped near the gate, her gaze falling on an apple that had fallen right in front of her, broken in two.
Anton looked at her in silence, picking up the two pieces. He handed one to his wife. In his eyes, there was more than any word could have expressed.
Sixth test. Sixth disappointment.
But instead of tears, a firm decision.
— Tomorrow, we’re going to town, said Élise, taking a bite of the apple. To the orphanage.
Their house was on a hill, surrounded by a garden where, in the summer, bees buzzed between the trees and where, in the winter, snow gently settled on the roofs of the birdhouses. Old, two stories, with carved woodwork and a large veranda, it was not just a roof over their heads, but a living entity, breathing with them.
— Are you sure? — asked Anton, running his hand over the rough bark of an old apple tree.
Élise nodded. Six months ago, they had received that terrible diagnosis — they couldn’t have children… Continue reading in the first comment below… 👇👇👇
Élise and Anton lived in an old house perched on a hill, surrounded by a large garden where the wind rustled the leaves like secrets. For six years, they had hoped to have a child, but each pregnancy test brought the same disappointment. After another negative result, Élise, tired of waiting and the treatments, sighed:
— What if we adopt?
They went to an orphanage in a neighboring town. Among all the children, a four-year-old girl with dark eyes, silent, focused on a drawing, caught their attention. Her name was Mila. Despite her reserved demeanor, she exuded a strange, almost familiar softness. Élise extended her hand to her; Mila hesitated, then took it with fragile trust. That simple gesture was enough. Three months later, Mila crossed the threshold of their home, which was now hers.
Years passed. Mila grew up in a cocoon of love and care. She helped Anton with the beehive, baked cakes with Élise, and spent hours drawing under the old oak tree. At school, her teachers praised her artistic talent. One day, one of them suggested sending her drawings to a regional competition. Mila, initially shy, agreed. A few weeks later, a letter arrived: she had won a scholarship to a prestigious fine arts academy in the capital.
The day before her 18th birthday, the family was preparing a party in the garden. Garlands hung from the branches, candles lit the table. As they laughed around the cake, a black car stopped in front of the house. A man and a woman in their fifties, well-dressed but with uneasy looks, stepped out.
— Excuse us, said the woman in a trembling voice. I am Irina Koval, and this is my husband Pavel. We’re looking for our daughter… She disappeared 14 years ago. We called her Anya.
Élise and Anton exchanged a frozen look. Mila, standing next to them, turned pale. Irina pulled out an old photo: a little girl with the same look as Mila. Then she handed over an envelope with the results of a DNA test. The silence grew heavy. Mila slowly stepped back, overwhelmed. She ran to her favorite hiding spot: the small attic above the stable, where she would go to dream, draw, and isolate herself.
Anton found her at dusk. He didn’t speak. He sat next to her, silent, respectful of her emotions. Then, softly:
— You don’t have to choose. You are our daughter, no matter what. If you want to discover your origins, we’ll be here. Always.
These words soothed Mila. She came back downstairs, standing tall, her eyes full of emotion but resolute. In front of Irina and Pavel, she calmly said:
— I grew up here. These are my parents. But I want to understand. I want to know. You can be a part of my life. But my home, it’s here.
The Kovals were crying. They didn’t dare hope to be accepted. But Mila harbored no resentment. The painful past couldn’t erase the love she had received.
A few weeks later, she agreed to meet them in a park. They talked for a long time. Irina showed her photos, recalled memories from before her disappearance. Mila listened, sometimes troubled, but open to integrating these fragments into her story.
On the day of her departure for the capital, Élise gave her a sketchbook and a hand-embroidered scarf. Anton handed her a small jar of honey.
— So you never forget where sweetness comes from, he said with a smile.
On the platform, Mila looked at her two worlds united. She now understood that her roots didn’t hinder the blossoming of her dreams but, on the contrary, nourished them.
