**Diary Entry**
The house was full of guests againalways full of guests. Bottles everywhere, but not a scrap of food in sight. Just empty crisp packets and a tin with nothing left inside. I checked the table once more, hoping for even a bite of bread, but nothing.
“Alright, Mum, Im off,” I said, pulling on my worn-out shoes. Part of me still hoped shed stop metell me to stay, that shed make porridge, clear out the guests, scrub the floors. But kind words werent her way. Hers were like thorns, sharp enough to make me curl up and hide.
This time, I decided to leave for good. Six years old, but I felt old enough. First, I needed moneyfor a bun, maybe two. My stomach growled, demanding food. I didnt know how to get money, but passing the shops, I spotted an empty bottle half-buried in the snow. You could return bottles for cash. I tucked it into my pocket, found a crumpled bag near the bus stop, and spent the rest of the day collecting more.
The bottles clinked merrily in the bag. I imagined buying a warm, buttery bunraisin, maybe even one with jam. Then I worried the jam one might cost more, so I kept searching.
I wandered to the station. Men drank beer on the platform, waiting for trains. I set my heavy bag down and dashed for another bottle. When I returned, a dirty, angry bloke had taken them. I asked for them back, but he glared so fiercely I had no choice but to walk away.
The dream of that bun vanished like a mirage.
“Collecting bottles isnt easy,” I thought, trudging through snowy streets. The slush soaked through my shoes, numbing my toes. By nightfall, I dont even remember how I ended up in a stairwell, curling up against a radiator, drifting into warm sleep.
When I woke, I thought I was dreamingit was warm, quiet, and smelled delicious. A woman walked in, kind-eyed and lovely.
“Youve warmed up now,” she said. “Come, have breakfast. I found you last night, sleeping like a stray pup. Brought you home.”
“Is this my home now?” I asked, hardly believing my luck.
“If youve none, it can be,” she said.
It was like a fairy tale after that. She fed me, cared for me, bought me clothes. Slowly, I told her about my life with Mum.
Her name was Lillianmagical to me. Id never heard it before. A name for a kind fairy, I decided.
“Would you like me to be your mum?” she asked once, hugging me tight the way real mothers do.
Of course, I wanted to. But
The happiness didnt last. A week later, my mother came. Mostly sober but shouting. “No ones stripped my rights! Hes mine!”
As she dragged me away, snowflakes fell, and the house behind us looked like a white castle dusted in magic.
Life got harder. Mum drank. I ran away, slept in stations, collected bottles, bought bread. Never asked for help.
Eventually, Mum lost her rights. I was sent to a childrens home.
The worst part? I couldnt remember where that white house wasthe one with the woman whose name sounded like a spell.
Three years passed. I was quiet, withdrawn. I drew the same thing over and overa white house, snow falling.
Then a journalist visited. The matron explained, “Leons a good lad, but struggles fitting in. Were trying to find him a family.”
The journalist smiled. “Im Lillian.”
I came alive. Words poured outabout the other Lillian. My eyes shone, cheeks flushed. The matron stared, stunned.
Lillian wept as I spoke. She promised to write about me, hoping the other Lillian might see it.
She kept her word. And a miracle happened.
That woman wasnt a newspaper subscriber, but on her birthday, her colleagues wrapped flowers in a paper. The headline caught her eye: *”Kind Woman LillianLeon Is Looking for You.”*
She knew at once.
When we met, I recognized her instantly. We hugged. Everyone criedme, her, the staff.
“I waited so long,” I whispered.
They had to pry me off her. She couldnt take me straightawayadoption took timebut she visited every day.
P.S. Life turned happy after that. Im 26 now. Graduated from uni. Engaged. Cheerful, sociable. I love my mum, Lillian, who gave me everything years later, she told me her husband left because she couldnt have children. Shed been lonely until she found me in that stairwell.
When my birth mother took me back, Lillian had thought, *”Maybe it wasnt meant to be.”*
Finding me at the home made her happier than shed ever been.
I tried tracing my birth mother once. Learned shed rented our old flat, then left town with a man fresh out of prison. I didnt look further. Why bother?
**Lesson:** Some people arent meant to stay. But the ones who choose youtheyre the ones who matter.
