**Diary Entry**
Everyone was drinking, drinkingbottles everywhere, but not a scrap of food in sight. The house was full of guests again. It always was. I searched the tablenothing but cigarette butts and an empty tin can. Not even a slice of bread.
*Maybe this time shell stop me,* I thought. *Maybe shell say, Where are you going, love? You havent eaten, and its freezing outside. Sit down. Ill make some porridge, send the guests away, and scrub the floors.* But Mum wasnt one for soft words. Hers were like thorns, sharp enough to make me curl up inside.
I was six, but I felt old enough to leave for good. First, I needed moneyfor a bun, maybe two. My stomach growled, demanding to be fed. I didnt know how to get coins, but then I spotted an empty bottle half-buried in the snow. My heart leapt. Bottles could be returned for cash.
I stuffed it in my pocket, then found a crumpled bag near the bus stop. The rest of the afternoon, I scavenged for more. Soon the bag clinked with glass, heavy in my hands. I imagined buying a warm, jam-filled bunmaybe even custard, if I found enough.
At the train station, where men drank beer on the platform, I set my bag down and dashed for another bottle. When I turned back, a grubby, scowling man was stomping off with my haul. I called after him, but his glare sent me stumbling away.
The dream of that bun vanished like a mirage.
*Collecting bottles isnt easy,* I thought, wandering the icy streets. The wet snow clung to my shoes. My toes went numb. By nightfall, I mustve crawled into a stairwell, pressing close to the radiator before sleep took me.
When I woke, it felt like a dreamwarmth, quiet, and the smell of something delicious. A woman stood there, beautiful, her gaze kind.
Awake at last, lad? she said. Come, lets get you breakfast. Found you last night, curled up like a stray pup.
Is this my home now? I whispered, hardly daring to hope.
If youve none, then yes, she answered.
What followed was like a fairy tale. She fed me, bought me new clothes, listened as I spilled stories of life with Mum. Her name was Lillianmagical, I thought. Id never heard it before. Only a fairy godmother could have a name so lovely.
Would you like me to be your mum? she asked once, holding me tight the way real mothers do.
Of course I did. But
A week later, my real mother came, stone-cold sober and shouting about rights. She dragged me away as snowflakes fell, the house behind us turning into a white castle under the spell of winter.
After that, life turned hard again. Mum drank. I ran away, slept in stations, scrounged for bottles. I never asked for help.
Eventually, they took me from her for goodsent me to a childrens home. The saddest part? I couldnt remember where Lillians house was.
Three years passed. I kept to myself, drawing the same scene over and overa white house, snow falling.
Then a journalist came. Her name was Lillian too.
The moment I heard it, I couldnt stop talkingtelling her about the other Lillian, the one whod almost been my mum. My heart thawed with every word.
She kept her promisewrote about me in the local paper. A miracle followed.
The real Lillian wasnt a reader, but on her birthday, a colleague wrapped flowers in newsprint. There, in bold print: *Good Woman Lillian, Leon Is Searching for You.*
She knew at once.
When we met again, I flew into her arms. We criedall of us, even the carers.
I waited so long, I told her.
She visits every day now. The adoptions in motion.
P.S. Life turned out alright. Im 26 nowgraduated, engaged, happy. I owe it all to Mum Lillian, who warmed a frozen boy in a stairwell.
Later, she confessed shed been heartbroken, unwanteduntil she found me.
*Meant to be,* she whispered, holding me tight in the childrens home.
As for my birth mother? She vanished years ago with some ex-con. I stopped looking.
Why bother? Id already found home.
