Rain drizzled down the windshield, tiny drops merging and sliding in crooked paths. Through the blurry glass, I could just make out the house—the house where I once tucked Hazel into bed, where we danced barefoot on the wooden porch, where she used to run straight into my arms the moment I walked through the door.
But today, I was just a visitor.
Three years ago, I had to leave. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. Cancer stole my strength, my hair, and worst of all, my ability to care for my little girl. Nathan, my husband, assured me it was only temporary. Hazel would stay with him while I got better.
I believed him. I had to. But as the months dragged on and my treatments drained me, everything became harder.
The first time Hazel saw me after my surgery, she hesitated. Her little fingers curled into her dress as she stared at me like I was someone she didn’t recognize.
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
My heart cracked, but I forced a smile. “I got sick, baby. But I’m better now.”
Nathan rested a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a lot for her. She just needs some time.”
At first, Hazel sent letters—small notes covered in crayon drawings of cats and bright yellow suns.
“I love you, Mommy!” she wrote in big, uneven letters.
But the notes became fewer. The phone calls shorter. Then, the excuses started.
“She’s at practice.” “She’s with her friends.” “She’s busy with school.”
And then—nothing.
No more letters. No more calls. Just silence.
I was still weak from my final rounds of chemo when an envelope arrived in the mail. It was thick, filled with legal documents. No letter. No explanation. Just cold, printed words that stole my breath away.
Nathan had moved on. Found someone else.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the papers, my vision blurring as I scanned the text. Divorce. Custody. He had convinced the court that Hazel needed stability, a home without the uncertainty of a mother battling sickness.
I had barely finished my treatments. I was still fighting to rebuild my strength. How could I fight him too?
So, I signed.
I signed because I had no choice. Because my lawyer promised I would still have weekends with Hazel. Because I believed, deep down, that my daughter would always remember me.
And now, after years of fighting, I was finally back. I was healthy. I had beaten cancer, and I had come to bring my daughter home.
I climbed the porch steps. Before I could knock, the door swung open.
Sara stood there—Nathan’s new wife. Perfect, poised, with her sleek dark hair and a soft, pitying smile.
I forced my voice to stay steady. “I’m here to pick up Hazel.”
Sara tilted her head slightly. “Evelyn… I thought Nathan called you.”
My stomach twisted. “Called me about what?”
She sighed, as if this was difficult for her. “He took Hazel to the fair.”
The fair.
My pulse spiked. “But today is my day.”
Sara let out a slow breath. “Evelyn… she doesn’t want to go.”
My fingers curled into fists. “That’s not true.”
“She doesn’t ask about you anymore.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “She calls me Mom now.”
The world tilted beneath my feet. No. That wasn’t possible. My baby could never forget me.
Before Sara could say another word, I turned and ran to my car.
I had to find her. I had to see Hazel.
The fair buzzed with life. The scent of caramel apples and roasted nuts filled the crisp evening air, but I barely noticed. I pushed through the crowds, my heart hammering.
“Where is she?” I muttered under my breath, scanning every little girl in sight. Every flicker of brown hair made my pulse jump.
Then, I saw her.
She stood a short distance away, clutching Nathan’s hand. My Hazel.
“Hazel!”
She turned, her big brown eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I expected her to run to me, like she always did. But she just stared.
I took a step forward. “Baby, it’s me!”
She didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just… stared.
A cool breeze brushed my scalp. That’s when I realized—my wig. It was gone. My bare, shaven head was exposed, raw and unfamiliar.
Hazel’s fingers tightened around Nathan’s sleeve. Her lip trembled.
I reached out. “Sweetheart, it’s okay…”
She flinched.
And then, in a small, broken voice, she whispered the words that shattered my world.
“You’re not my mom. You’re just a bald lady.”
Back in my apartment, I clutched Hazel’s old teddy bear to my chest. The soft fabric was worn from years of love, but it still smelled like her.
“You’re not my mom.”
The words echoed in my mind, looping over and over until they became unbearable. Tears streamed down my face as I pulled out a small shoebox filled with Hazel’s old letters.
“I love you, Mommy!”
“Can’t wait to see you!”
“You’re the best!”
When did she stop loving me? When did I become a stranger?
I grabbed my laptop, scrolling mindlessly, until something caught my eye—a post from Hazel’s school.
An art contest.
I clicked, my breath catching in my throat as I saw it.
Hazel’s submission.
A painting of a sky full of stars.
It was our story. The one I used to tell her before bed. About a little girl who lost her mother but found her way home by following the stars.
Hope sparked in my chest. She hadn’t forgotten. Not completely.
I grabbed my phone and dialed my best friend.
“I need your help,” I said. “We have two days to prepare.”
The school auditorium was packed. As the lights dimmed, I held my breath. Hazel sat in the front row with Sara, oblivious to what was about to happen.
The screen flickered. A video played.
Hazel’s giggles filled the room. Clips of us baking cookies, running through autumn leaves, laughing as the wind tangled her curls.
The audience gasped.
Hazel sat frozen, her fingers slipping from Sara’s hand.
Then, my voice filled the speakers. “Hi, my love. It’s Mommy.”
Hazel’s breath hitched. The next images appeared—letters. Dozens of them. My handwriting, my words, words that never reached her.
“Where… where are these?” Hazel turned to Sara, her voice shaking. “Why didn’t I get them?”
Sara paled. “I… I didn’t want to upset you.”
“So you hid them?” Hazel whispered.
Silence.
Hazel turned, scanning the room. And then—she saw me.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, she ran.
Straight into my arms.
“Mom!”
Tears streamed down my face as I held her. “I never stopped loving you.”
Hazel’s tiny fingers clutched my jacket. “I want to go home with you.”
Nathan stepped forward. His voice was quiet. “Yes, sweetheart. You can.”
A mother’s love is like the stars. Always there. Even when unseen.
And that night, my little girl finally found her way home.
