The Blue Eyes from a Dream
Oliver had never known his mother’s touch or his father’s voice. He remembered nothing but the grey, endless hallways and the quiet footsteps of the caretakers. It was as if he hadn’t been born to a woman at all, but straight into the walls of the Liverpool orphanage. While others had fragments—a cradle, the scent of perfume, warm hands—he had only the cold plastic of forgotten toys and the sound of water dripping in the sink.
But at night, everything changed.
In his dreams, a woman came to him. She would sit beside him, hold him close, run her fingers through his hair, and whisper kind words. Her eyes were like the spring sky after a storm—clear, blue, and endlessly familiar. When he woke, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move, afraid to lose the warmth of that dream. The day after, he was quieter than usual but not as sullen—as if a piece of her gentleness stayed with him.
In reality, things were different. Every day, strangers visited the orphanage—prospective adoptive parents. The children dressed up, recited poems, forced smiles. They elbowed each other, fought for attention. But Oliver stood apart. He didn’t beg, didn’t perform, didn’t pretend. He was waiting—not for just anyone, but for *her*, the woman from his dreams.
“Oliver, please, just smile!” pleaded one of the caretakers.
But he only frowned, stubborn, turning away. He wouldn’t leave with strangers. He would know *her* when he saw her.
One day, a delegation arrived, celebrating the orphanage’s anniversary. Cameras flashed, unfamiliar faces crowded the halls. Oliver, as always, sat in the far corner—until his gaze caught on one woman. Tall, elegant, with short hair and a smile that sent shivers down his spine. And her eyes—*those same eyes*. His breath hitched.
Then—she looked straight at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life… he smiled.
A caretaker nearly dropped her tea. In six years at the orphanage, Oliver had *never* smiled. Not once. But now, suddenly, effortlessly, it was real.
The woman approached. She sat beside him. He didn’t look away. He listened, laughed, asked questions—without fear. With her, it was just like the dreams: safe, warm, *real*.
She kept coming back. No cameras, no crowds—just books, walks in the courtyard, talks about clouds and places she’d been. Then, for a month, she vanished. Oliver didn’t ask the caretakers where she’d gone—he was afraid they’d say she wasn’t coming back.
But she did. She returned in a plain jacket, no makeup, and said:
“Oliver, I’m here to take you home. You’re going to be my son.”
He didn’t believe it. Thought he was dreaming. Pinched himself—it hurt. It was real. He didn’t speak, just hugged her. Tight. Silent. The only way he knew how.
Later, she introduced him to her husband—a kind, easygoing man who welcomed Oliver as his own. Together, they started fresh. His first homemade cake. His first trip to the countryside. His first night falling asleep to silence, not the echoes of footsteps in the hall.
Oliver never went back to the orphanage. But sometimes, passing a mirror, he caught a glimpse of that same light in his own eyes—blue, warm, just like hers. His mother. *Really* his.
And he learned that sometimes, the things we wait for the longest are the ones worth believing in.
