**Diary Entry**
Its the same old storybottles everywhere, drinks flowing, but not a scrap of food in sight. The house was full of guests again. Honestly, it always was.
*”Everyones drinking, drinking, bottles piled high, and not a bite to eat. If only I could find even a crust of bread but the tables just a mess of bottle caps and an empty tin.”* I scanned the table once more, but there was nothing.
“Mum, Im going out,” I muttered, slowly pulling on my worn-out shoes. A tiny part of me still hoped shed stop me, say something like, *”Where are you off to, love? Youve not eaten, and its freezing out. Stay home. Ill make some porridge, send the guests packing, and scrub the floors.”*
I always waited for a kind word, but Mum wasnt the type for softness. Her words were like thorns, making me want to curl up and hide.
This time, I decided to leave for good. At six years old, I felt old enough. First, I needed moneyenough for a bun, maybe even two. My stomach growled, demanding to be fed.
I didnt know how to get money, but walking past the shops, I spotted an empty bottle half-buried in the snow. Then I remembered: bottles could be returned for cash. I tucked it into my pocket, then found a crumpled bag near the bus stop. The rest of the day, I hunted for more.
Soon, the bag was heavy, bottles clinking merrily inside. I imagined buying a warm, sweet bunmaybe with raisins, or even jam. But then I worried jam might cost more, so I kept searching.
I wandered to the train station. On the platform, where men drank beer waiting for their trains, I set my bag down by a kiosk and dashed off for another bottle. While I was gone, a grubby, angry man snatched my haul. I asked for it back, but he glared so fiercely, I turned and walked away.
The dream of that bun vanished like a mirage.
*Collecting bottles isnt easy,* I thought, trudging through snowy streets. The wet snow clung to my shoes, my feet numb with cold. Darkness fell. I dont remember how I ended up in the stairwell, but I curled up by the radiator and drifted into a warm sleep.
When I woke, I thought I was still dreamingit was so warm, quiet, and cosy. And the smell something delicious!
A woman walked in. She was kind-faced, her eyes gentle.
“Well, lad,” she said, “warmed up? Had a good sleep? Come on, lets get some breakfast. Found you last night, curled up like a stray pup in the stairwell. Brought you home.”
“Is this my home now?” I asked, hardly daring to believe it.
“If youve none of your own, then yes,” she replied.
From then on, it was like a fairy tale. This kind womanLillian, her name wasfed me, cared for me, bought me new clothes. Slowly, I told her everything about life with Mum.
Lillian. It sounded magical to melike something from a story. Id never heard the name before, and I decided only a good fairy could have one so lovely.
“Would you like me to be your mum?” she asked once, hugging me tightlythe way real mothers do.
Of course, I wanted that. But
The happiness didnt last. A week later, Mum turned up, nearly sober, shouting at Lillian. *”No ones stripped me of my rights! Hes my son!”*
As she dragged me away, snowflakes fell, and Lillians housenow behind melooked like a white castle dusted with magic.
Life got harder after that. Mum drank. I ran away, slept in stations, collected bottles, bought bread. I didnt trust anyone, didnt ask for help.
Eventually, Mum *did* lose her rights, and I was sent to a childrens home.
The worst part? I couldnt remember where that white castle-house was, or how to find the kind woman with the fairy-tale name.
Three years passed.
I kept to myself, silent most days. My one comfort was drawingalways the same scene: a white house, snow falling.
Then a journalist visited. The carer introduced us.
“This is Leo. A good lad, but he struggles to adjust. Were trying to find him a family.”
The journalist smiled. “Im Lillian.”
Something in me woke up. The quiet boy suddenly couldnt stop talkingabout *another* Lillian, the one whod been kind. My words spilled out, my face flushed. The carer stared, stunned.
That name*Lillian*was a key to my heart.
The journalist cried listening to my story. She promised to write about me in the local paper. Maybe, just maybe, the real Lillian would see it.
And she did.
She wasnt a subscriber, but it was her birthday. Colleagues had given her flowers wrapped in newspaper. Unfolding it, she spotted the headline: *”Kind Woman Named LillianA Boy Named Leo Is Searching for You.”*
She read it and *knew*.
When we met again, I recognised her instantly. We clung to each other, both crying.
“I waited so long for you,” I whispered.
They wouldnt let her take me right awaypaperwork, they said. But she visited every day.
Eventually, she became my mum.
**P.S.** My life turned happy after that. Im 26 now. Graduated from tech college. Engaged to a lovely girl. Chatty, cheerfulnothing like the boy I was. And I owe it all to Mum, Lillian.
Years later, she told me her husband left because they couldnt have children. Shed been lonely, until she found me in that stairwell.
When Mum took me away, shed thought, *”I suppose it wasnt meant to be.”*
But fate had other plans.
I tried to find my birth mother once. Learned shed rented a flat, then left with some man released from prison. I didnt look further.
Why would I? I already had everything.
