Oliver had never known his mother’s touch or his father’s voice. His earliest memories were of grey, monotonous corridors and the hushed footsteps of carers in the Liverpool orphanage. It was as if he’d been born within its walls, not to a woman. Others had fragments—a cradle, the scent of perfume, warm hands. He had only cold plastic toys and the sound of running water in the sink.
But at night, everything changed.
In his dreams, a woman came to him. She would sit beside him, hold him close, stroke his hair, and whisper kind words. Her eyes were like a spring sky after rain—clear, blue, endlessly familiar. He’d wake and lie still, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move lest he lose the warmth of that dream. The next day, he’d be quiet but less sullen, as if a trace of her affection lingered.
Reality was different. Each day, “visitors” came—prospective adoptive parents. The children dressed up, recited poems, forced smiles. They fought for attention, shoved, interrupted. Oliver stayed apart. He didn’t perform, didn’t beg for glances. He waited. Not for just anyone. For *her*, the woman from his dreams.
“Oliver, please, just smile,” a carer urged.
He only frowned and turned away. He wouldn’t go with strangers. He’d know *her* when she came.
One day, a delegation arrived to mark the orphanage’s anniversary. Cameras, photographers, unfamiliar faces. Oliver sat in his usual corner, avoiding the fuss—until his gaze caught on one woman. Tall, slender, with short hair and *that* smile. And her eyes—*the same ones.* His breath hitched.
Suddenly, she looked right at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life… he smiled.
A carer spilled her tea. In six years at the home, Oliver had never smiled. Now, suddenly, it was real—bright and effortless.
The woman approached. Sat with him. He didn’t look away. He listened, laughed, asked questions. With her, it was just like the dreams—easy, safe, *right.*
She started visiting. No cameras, no crowds. She brought books, explored the courtyard with him, talked of clouds and cities she’d seen. Then she vanished for a month. Oliver didn’t ask the carers—too afraid to hear she wouldn’t return.
But she did. Arrived in a plain jacket, no makeup. And said:
“Oliver, I’m taking you home. You’ll be my son.”
He didn’t believe it. Pinched himself—*pain*. It was real. He didn’t speak, just hugged her. Tight. Long. Silent.
Later, she introduced her husband. A kind, unpretentious man who welcomed Oliver instantly. Together, they began a new life. A first cake in their flat. A first trip to the woods. A first night without footsteps in the hall.
Oliver never went back to the orphanage. Only sometimes, catching his reflection, he’d see it—that same light in his eyes. Blue, warm. *Hers.* His mother’s. Finally.
