**The Fateful Encounter**
Emily married James shortly after graduating from university. Their love burned so fiercely it seemed the world existed solely for them. Her parents, overjoyed by their happiness, helped the young couple buy a spacious two-bedroom flat in Manchester.
One room was tenderly prepared as a nursery. They bought two small cots, already picturing their future child sleeping soundly in one. They’d even chosen a name for their firstborn—Oliver. Strangely, Emily and James were certain their first child would be a boy. Just in case, they picked a girl’s name—Charlotte. But to friends, they only ever spoke excitedly of Oliver, as if a daughter were a distant afterthought.
When Emily’s grandmother, Margaret, heard this, she scolded her sharply:
“Em, love, you mustn’t do that! Naming a child before they’re born is bad luck! A name should only be given once the babe’s in your arms!”
“Nan, come off it—since when do you believe in silly superstitions?” Emily laughed, brushing it off.
Yet three years passed, and the nursery remained empty, as though cursed. Emily couldn’t conceive. Medicines, doctors, endless tests—none of it helped. Hope melted like winter’s last frost, leaving only an aching hollowness.
Margaret, watching her granddaughter suffer, persuaded her to visit a local wisewoman, Auntie Rose. Emily didn’t believe in such things, but desperation forced her to agree. *What if?* The thought flickered in her mind.
Auntie Rose listened intently, then fixed Emily with deep, unsettling eyes.
“You and your husband dreamed of a son—named him Oliver. But the name came before the child. Someone took that name. Now both you and the one who bears it are unhappy. Make that child happy, and happiness will find you.”
Emily’s chest clenched. Somehow, the old woman’s words rang true.
“Auntie Rose, what do I do?” Her voice trembled.
“You’ll know,” the wisewoman replied cryptically. “And when you do, joy will fill your home.”
Another year slipped by. Still no child. Emily had nearly forgotten the words, though a stubborn ember of hope glowed faintly in her heart. James, too, refused to give up, though sadness darkened his gaze more often.
One day, Emily found herself across town on errands. She was passing an old puppet theatre when a bus marked *Children’s Home* pulled up. A flock of little ones, no older than four, tumbled out, chattering like sparrows. She stopped, enchanted by their laughter—until a shout cut through.
“Oli—ver!”
A small boy dashed into the road after his cap. Emily, closest to him, lunged forward, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back, her pulse roaring in her ears.
“Oliver,” she gasped, unsure why she’d called him by name.
“Mum,” he whispered, wrapping tiny arms around her neck.
A carer rushed over. “Bless you—thank you!”
She reached for him, but Oliver clung to Emily like a burr.
“Oliver, shall we go see the puppets?” Emily murmured, still trembling.
Turning to the carer, she asked, “Why did he call me *Mum*?” The boy’s wide eyes held her captive.
“Oh, they call everyone they like *Mum*,” the woman said offhandedly. Then, softer: “You’ve no children of your own?”
“No,” Emily’s voice cracked. “We’ve tried so hard…”
The carer studied her kindly. “Oliver’s a lovely lad. Come visit us sometime.”
That evening, Emily met James with tear-streaked cheeks.
“Em, what’s wrong?” He pulled her close.
“Today, by the puppet theatre… A bus from the children’s home stopped. A boy ran into the road—I caught him. He hugged me. Called me *Mum*. And his name… it’s Oliver.”
She collapsed into sobs against his shoulder.
“Jamie, let’s take him home. Let him be ours.”
James hesitated, then smiled. “How old is he?”
“Three or four. He’s so bright, so gentle. When I held him—everything *shifted*.”
“Alright, love,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the home. We’ll see.”
The next day, armed with toys and sweets, they met the director, Mrs. Whitmore. She greeted them warmly, already aware of yesterday’s near-miss.
“You must be Emily! And this is James?” She ushered them in. “Oliver’s been asking for you.”
Minutes later, the door creaked open. Oliver’s face lit up.
“Mum!” He barrelled into Emily’s arms.
James knelt, producing a toy lorry. Oliver’s gasp of delight was all the answer they needed.
Paperwork blurred into visits, then weekends at their flat. Oliver thrived—until the day an ambulance took Emily away. For three days, he stayed silent, as Dad asked, but fear gnawed at him.
Then, one morning, the door burst open. James held a tiny bundle. Emily, radiant, stood beside him.
“Look, Olly,” whispered Margaret, unfolding the blanket. “Your sister’s here.”
“What’s her name?” teased the other gran, pretending to fuss.
“Charlotte!” Oliver announced proudly.
“My boy,” Emily wept, pulling him close. “Oh, how I missed you…”
