“Do you think they’re happy I found you?” she asked.
With the inheritance, I could finally provide the care Lila needed: better doctors, more treatment options, and a bedroom painted lavender, just like she wanted. Though still fragile, hope blossomed. Her blood counts improved, energy returned slowly, and she started chasing butterflies in the garden, laughing louder than ever.
Doctors began using words I’d been too scared to hear: “Improvement,” “Response,” and “Remission window.”
One afternoon, while coloring on the porch, Lila said, “Maybe my first parents picked you for me.”
I smiled. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you showed up just when I needed you. They probably told God, ‘Give her to that lady. She looks lonely.’”
I laughed and hugged her tightly. “Then I owe them everything.”
By autumn, the doctors confirmed it — Lila was in remission. I cried so hard the nurse brought tissues, but Lila just patted my hand and said, “See? Told you we’d win.”
We moved into her parents’ house that winter. The first thing Lila did was plant tulips — pink and white — in the garden. “For both my moms,” she said.
“I know they can,” I say. “And I think they’re proud.”
It’s been three years now. Lila is 13, healthy, and full of life. The garden blooms year-round. On the living room wall, the letter from her parents is framed and cherished, a daily reminder of the love that surrounds her. Sometimes, I pass by her room at night and see her asleep under glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to her ceiling. Her blue scarf lies on the chair — untouched for months because she doesn’t need it anymore. I used to think I had missed my chance at motherhood. That life had decided it wasn’t meant for me. But maybe, I was just waiting for the right child — one who would teach me that motherhood isn’t about biology. It’s about showing up. About love that never quits, even when life gets hard. Lila was born twice — once into this world, and once into my heart. Both times, she was absolutely perfect.
