When my husband passed away far too early, his little daughter was only five years old.
From that day on, all the responsibility of caring for her fell on my shoulders. I raised her as my own: I fed her, cared for her when she was sick, helped her study, and spent sleepless nights by her bedside. Later, I helped her get into college and supported her both financially and emotionally.
Now my adoptive daughter is thirty years old. All these years she has been by my side, but lately I noticed she had become distant, cold. I worried that maybe she was tired of taking care of me, that it was too much for her.
One evening she came home and said:
— Pack your things. For now, just the essentials.
— Where are we going?
She didn’t answer. We packed the suitcase, and the whole ride I cried quietly. I was certain she was taking me to a nursing home. My heart ached — could it be that all those years of love and care meant nothing?
The car stopped in front of a huge two-story house. I wiped my tears and got out. Before my eyes stood something incredible: a well-kept garden, a white façade, wide windows, and a spacious yard.
My daughter looked at me and said with a trembling voice:
— Mom… this is our home now. You’ve always dreamed of a place like this. All this time, I’ve been saving money to give you the house of your dreams. Forgive me for being so cold these past few days — I had to hide everything for the surprise. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
I stood there in shock, hardly believing my eyes. The tears on my cheeks were now different — they were tears of happiness. I realized: her love was alive, it just showed itself in the most unexpected and touching way.
