After My Adopted Daughter Abandoned Me

Late autumn evenings always come early; just after five, the sky had already grown dark. The streetlights along the street lit up one after another, their soft yellow glow shining through the glass door of the convenience store, casting long patches of light on the ground. I stood at the door clutching the hot milk I'd just bought, the warmth still lingering at my fingertips from the carton, but my gaze was caught by the small figure curled up outside. She was a girl of seven or eight, wearing a thin coat so faded from washing it had turned pale, the cuffs frayed and worn. When the wind blew, her shoulders trembled uncontrollably, like a little plant about to wither in the cold. "Sir, could you please give me a sip of hot water?" She looked up, her voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, the end of her words trembled with unshed tears. Her eyes were red, like a little rabbit wronged and hurt. My heart softened, and I handed her the cup of hot milk: "This one's warmer—just bought it, still hot. Here, you take it." Her fingertips trembled slightly when they touched mine, as if she hadn't expected such warmth. "Thank you, Sir. I... I haven't had anything warm to drink in a long time." She took the milk, clutching it tightly with both hands, sipping it little by little; the steam blurred her eyes. "Where's your home? Why are you here all alone?" I crouched down, trying to make my voice sound gentle, meeting her gaze at eye level. The girl bit the edge of the milk carton, tears dripping and splashing onto the packaging, forming a small wet patch: "My parents got divorced. Dad said I'm a burden and doesn't want me anymore." "Mom... Mom left me by the roadside, saying she was going to buy candy, but I waited for a long time, and she never came back." I can't find my way home. Every word felt like little stones, pounding on my heart. I reached out and gently touched her head. "Come home with me. From now on, this will be your home. You won't have to freeze, and you won't go hungry." "Really?" Her eyes suddenly lit up; those big, red-rimmed eyes were full of disbelief. "Sir, you don't mind me? I can sweep the floor, wash the dishes, and I can even help you wipe the tables!" "I don't mind." I smiled, reaching out to wipe the tears from her face. "Let me give you a name—Fiona Collins. I hope that from now on, your days will be bright and clear." She nodded eagerly, her hands gripping the milk carton so tightly they turned white. "Thank you, Sir! I promise I'll be good. I'll behave!" By the time we brought her back to the Collins Family, it was nearly nine o'clock. I tidied up the study, spread fresh sheets, fluffed the pillows, and plugged in a small nightlight. Fiona Collins stood by the door, her little hands gripping the hem of her dress tightly, eyes full of fear. "Sir, can I sleep with you? I'm afraid of the dark. When Mom wasn't home before, I kept a nightlight on and had to hug a stuffed toy to fall asleep." I pulled a teddy bear out of the cabinet and placed it beside her bed. "Why don't you try sleeping by yourself first? If you get scared, hold the bear tight. I'm right next door; just call out, and I'll hear you." She obediently nodded, climbed into bed, hugged the little bear tightly, and rested her chin on its head. In the middle of the night, when I got up to use the bathroom, I passed by the study and saw the door left slightly open. Moonlight slipped through the gap, landing on her face. Her little head was tilted, leaning against the toy, her breathing even and deep in sleep.