Six months after my daughter died, I forced myself to visit the winter festival she loved. I told myself I was strong enough to handle it. I told myself I could survive one afternoon surrounded by lights, music, and memories.
But the moment I heard a little girl begging for a pink balloon, my entire world cracked open. Because that little girl sounded exactly like my daughter. And when the man holding her hand turned around, everything I believed shattered into pieces.
My daughter died six months ago.
Six long months of sleepless nights. Six months of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Six months of standing in the doorway of her tiny bedroom, staring at her neatly made bed, her toys lined up like she might come back any second.
I would clutch her favorite blanket to my chest and feel the silence press down on me so hard it felt physical, like a weight I couldn’t escape.
I barely left the house during those months. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t meet friends. I didn’t watch movies or listen to music. I didn’t allow myself to imagine a future where her small voice didn’t echo through every corner of my life.
My daughter died six months ago.
But today was different.
Today, somehow, I found myself driving to the winter festival we used to visit together every year.
I know what you’re thinking. Why would I do that to myself?
I asked myself the same thing the entire drive there. My hands shook on the steering wheel, my chest tight with fear and doubt.
But Maddie loved this festival. She loved the bright lights, the cheerful music floating through the cold air, the smell of cotton candy. Most of all, she loved the balloons. Pink ones especially. Big ones that floated high above her head.
I kept telling myself that maybe seeing it again would help. Maybe touching one small piece of a memory wouldn’t hurt so badly anymore. Or maybe I was just desperate enough to try anything to feel close to her again.
I walked slowly through the crowd, my coat wrapped tightly around me. Families passed by, children laughing, parents smiling, hands held tight. My eyes scanned every little face, every small hand, every familiar laugh. My heart reacted to every sound, every movement.
And then my heart nearly stopped.
Near the balloon stand, weaving through a group of families, I saw a small figure holding hands with a tall man dressed in a ridiculous chicken costume.
The little girl walked with that slightly wobbly, excited step that only young children have. The way she bounced with every movement felt painfully familiar.
It was so familiar that I thought I might faint right there in the middle of the festival.
My mind screamed at me instantly. This isn’t real. You’re imagining things. You want to see her, so your brain is tricking you.
But then I heard her voice.
Sweet. Small. Perfectly Maddie.
“Please, Daddy! Buy me the pink one! The big pink balloon!”
My knees almost gave out. I barely dared to blink, terrified she would disappear if I did. My body moved before my mind could stop it, pulling me closer through the crowd.
As I got nearer, I saw something that nearly made me scream.
The girl lifted her arm and pointed at the balloons, and there it was. A small birthmark on her wrist. The exact same one Maddie had.
“Madeleine… Maddie?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
The girl looked up.
She giggled at something the man in the chicken costume said, and in that moment, I knew. I just knew.
My daughter was alive.
My heart leaped and shattered at the same time, overwhelmed by joy and confusion so intense I could barely breathe.
And then the man turned around.
When he lifted the oversized chicken head off, my stomach dropped.
“Evan?”
He froze.
The recognition was instant. Mutual.
Slowly, he removed the rest of the costume head. A smile appeared on his face, automatic and practiced, the same smile he’d given me countless times when we were together. But his eyes were cold. Empty.
The little girl tightened her grip on his hand and looked up at him with complete trust.
“Daddy? Who’s that?”
That single word hit me harder than any scream ever could.
Daddy.
She called him Daddy. She looked at him with love and safety. And she had no idea who I was.
Somehow, I forced words out. “That’s my daughter. That’s Maddie.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “No, it isn’t. And you shouldn’t be here.”
I let out a sharp, broken laugh. “You don’t get to tell me where I shouldn’t be. You left. You walked out right after I gave birth.”
People passed by us, laughing and chatting, completely unaware that my life was collapsing in the middle of the festival.
Evan bent down to the girl and said softly, “Sweetheart, go pick out your balloon. The pink one you like. I’ll be right here, okay?”
She hesitated, looking at me again. There was no recognition in her eyes. Just confusion. Curiosity. Maybe fear.
“Addison,” Evan said more sharply. “Go pick a balloon.”
She nodded and hurried toward the vendor.
The moment she was out of earshot, I stepped closer to him. “She died six months ago. How do you have her? What did you do?”
“Lower your voice,” he hissed.
“No,” I said loudly. “You don’t control this anymore. You didn’t even come to the funeral. And now you’re standing here with my supposedly dead daughter. Explain.”
He sighed, bored. “Seems like your twin died. That girl over there? She’s mine.”
My head spun. “What are you talking about?”
“When you told me you were having twins, I told you I couldn’t handle two babies. I still wanted one. Just not both.”
The memory came rushing back. Him saying, “Twins are too much. I can’t do that.”
“When the hospital was chaos,” he continued, “it wasn’t hard. You were exhausted. I took the child I wanted and let you believe the other one died.”
“You let me grieve her?” I whispered. “You let me think my baby was dead?”
“It was easier,” he said casually. “And look at her. She’s happy. She’s alive.”
I nearly lost control. The only thing that stopped me was the sight of the little girl returning with a pink balloon floating above her head.
She looked at Evan. “Daddy, can we go now?”
Before he could pull her away, I dropped to my knees. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
She smiled shyly. “Addie.”
Evan yanked her back. “Get away from her. You have no right.”
That was the moment everything became clear.
I stood up and pulled out my phone. “I have hospital records. Two birth certificates. And now I have you.”
His face drained of color. “You wouldn’t.”
I dialed 911 and stared straight at him as it rang.
When the operator answered, Evan panicked. He scooped Addie up and ran.
I chased them, speaking into the phone as the pink balloon bobbed above the crowd like a bright signal.
“There’s a man in a chicken costume running with my child,” I gasped. “Please hurry.”
Addie was crying now. By the time we reached the parking lot, police cars were already arriving, lights flashing.
Evan stopped. Officers took him away as he shouted things I refused to hear.
And then it was just me and Addie.
She stood there holding her balloon, trembling.
I knelt and opened my arms. I didn’t say a word.
After a moment, she stepped forward. Then another.
She pressed her face into my coat like she’d done it a thousand times before.
I held her, feeling her heartbeat against mine.
There would be questions. Tests. Trauma. Long nights.
But right now, she was here.
Alive.