When my sister died, her 7-year-old daughter faced foster care. I begged my husband to take her in; he hesitated, fearing the burden. His refusal stung. Torn, I let her go. Guilt shadowed me for years—missed birthdays, unspoken apologies.
Fourteen years later, a poised young woman knocked. Those gentle eyes—my niece, now 21. She’d thrived with loving foster parents, chased dreams, chosen forgiveness over resentment.
My husband’s regret mirrored mine. We listened, tears falling, as she spoke of curiosity, not anger. She didn’t need us to fix the past; she offered a future.
We embraced, hearts mending. Love, delayed but unbroken, circled back. Forgiveness unlocked the door guilt had sealed.
