THE LITTLE GIRL WHO NEVER GAVE UP

She first came into my life in the early nineties and quickly stole my heart. I love her as if she was my own. Happy Birthday, Karen you truly are THE LITTLE GIRL WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP......




I have a daughter that I did not give birth to. In the pecking order of my family, she would be the eldest. She is the daughter of my second husband, from his first marriage. Born in Scotland, she was a sweet, skinny, little red haired, freckle face cherub, with one crossed eye that turned inward. She was his darling girl until she was 6 years old. Then she vanished.

I didn’t meet her until she was a married woman with a child herself. Survivor of a bitter divorce and more hate in a family than I could ever fathom, she had managed to grow up sane and happy. I had heard all about her through the memories of my ex-husband, reliving holidays and getting through the sadness of missing yet another birthday without her.

He had one picture of her that he carried around with him in his wallet. A pixie face framed by dark glasses to adjust the crossed eye, she was a lover of horses and dolls. How cute she was and precious was her memory to him. How my heart would ache to see him suffer.

He would often dream of her, waking up with a face wet with tears. She was discussed only at brief intervals, telling our other children about her and that one day we would all get to meet her. I knew she was constantly on his mind and in his heart. I prayed that one day they would be reunited and end this torture for him.

I suppose in my heart I had always known one day we would meet, but I wasn’t prepared for the power of the emotions that arose within me.

On a lazy, mid-afternoon day in Winter, the phone rang and I thought it was one of my sisters. Separated only by miles and as was our routine, someone would call to have a “visit.” We always talked for over an hour, while the kids were outside, playing in the snow.

Expecting to hear one of the girls, I was unprepared for what was on the other end of the line. It wasn’t my sister. At first the voice was low, hesitant and soft spoken.

“Is my father there?” she asked in a voice I had never heard, but dreamed like it would sound. I thought perhaps it was a wrong number, but something about this little voice with a touch of scottish lilt spoke to my heart in a way I had only heard during the birth of my children.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, dear?” I asked. My mind started to race. Could it be?

“I’m so sorry to bother you” she started again, and stumbled out a few words, “I just thought…I looked this name up in the phone book…..thought maybe, I’ve been looking for so long…..is my Dad there?”

I slid to the floor because the air had left my lungs. There was no sound. Some how I knew. This was the little red head.

“Hello?” she asked again. “Are you there?”

I was there. Did I dare ask the question for fear of loosing the connection? I didn’t want to scare her.

“Is this Karen?” I asked, barely a whisper. I couldn’t breathe.

Silence. “Karen, honey, is that you?” I asked again, more firmer than I wanted to sound.

“You KNOW me?” her voice starting to tremble, “You KNOW me, you know who I AM?” she asked, incredulous, getting louder. “YOU KNOW ME?” She said now, practically screaming.

“Oh God, Oh Honey, I know ALL about you” I answered, also crying and screaming now as well. “I know you, I know you, I know you! Where are you calling from?”

It turns out that she and her mother had moved back to Scotland for a short time, but returned to the States shortly thereafter. She had grown up down south. Her mother had been able to work odd jobs to support herself and her red headed angel, even getting the optic surgery needed to repair the left crossed eye.

She had been looking for her father for 10 years.

Never giving up, even after contacting “family” members who had told her they didn’t know where he was. Always searching, even though she had been told time and time again that he had remarried and was not interested in her.

Evil in the face of once beloved Aunts.

But she never gave up. Something in her drove her to keep going until she found him. Their bond was stronger than the dysfunctional extended family it was her misfortune to have been born into.

She gave me her phone number and I told her I would call her Dad at work to let him know. I would leave the next move up to him, but I knew what he would do.

Years have gone by since that wonderful reunion, but she and I have a special bond that will never be broken. She has been welcomed into my heart and is loved as much as my birth children, who readily accepted her as their sister. A beautiful tall redhead, she is a proud woman of integrity, a loving wife and mother.

She is someone I am proud to call my daughter and also my friend. We have spent many happy visits together, getting to know her husband, their family, as well as her mother. She is a kind spirit who just got married too young in life. I could relate. She did a beautiful job in raising a fine young woman.

We know that what happened was a divine intervention from God. It was not coincidental she found us when she did. She was about to give birth to her second child and was so anxious for them to know us, to know their other grandfather. I am so thankful I was home to answer the telephone that day, and to hear that tiny but hopeful voice on the other end who never gave up against so many intentional road blocks set up to dissuade her.

Its been a few years since I've been able to physically visit with her, to get to know her children and her family. Mostly we just exchange holiday and birhday cards. But sentimentis still there, the love bond we have between each other.  The best gift is receiving a Mother's Day card from her every year.


“I’m so happy I found him ” she said that day before we hung up “Thank God I found him. God is good.”

“Yes” I said, “You found him. Welcome to your new family. Welcome home, my darling girl.”

Love always finds a way. Yes, God is good.