Her name is Sophie, and she's just three years old. Her big, clear eyes were filled with confusion. I crouched down in front of her, extended my hand, and gently asked, “Sophie, would you like to come home with me?”
She hesitated, staring at my hand, clearly scared. But with the director's encouragement, she slowly placed her tiny hand in mine and softly said, “Auntie.”
At that moment, tears welled up in my eyes. It felt like I was looking back in time, as if someone was reaching out to my younger self. But there was no one back then. Now, I can be that person for her.
After going through the experience of death, I realized it's not that I can't let go of family ties—I'm just afraid of being lonely and don't want to be alone.
The adoption process is complicated and takes about a month. I promised Sophie I'd come back to pick her up, telling her to eat well and sleep well until then. She agreed.
Maybe it's not just that she needs me; I need her too.
When I returned home, I found a crowd gathered outside my place. My mother was there, screaming at the top of her lungs like someone being attacked, “Claire, you coward! You won't come out, will you? I'll sue you, and I'll make sure your bosses at work know what kind of heartless, shameless person you are!”
“If you don't come out today, I'll die right here, and it'll be on you! I'll make sure you never show your face in public again!”
Her wailing was deafening. She was sitting on the ground, hair a mess, with a bucket of red paint next to her.
“Everyone, look at this! I raised her, I paid for her education, and now she's turning her back on me, driving me to my death!”
