**Blue Eyes from a Dream**
James had never known a mother’s touch or a father’s voice. His earliest memories were the grey, endless corridors of the Liverpool children’s home and the soft footsteps of carers. It was as if he had been born within its walls rather than from a woman’s arms. Other children had fragments—a cradle, the scent of perfume, warm hands. He had only cold plastic toys and the sound of water dripping from a tap.
But at night, everything changed.
In his dreams, a woman visited him. She would sit beside him, hold him close, stroke his hair, and whisper kind words. Her eyes were like a spring sky after the rain—clear, blue, endlessly comforting. When he woke, he would lie still, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move lest the warmth of the dream faded. The whole day after, he’d be quieter than usual, less sullen—as if a trace of her kindness lingered with him.
Reality was different. Every day, strangers came to the home—prospective parents. The children would dress up, recite poems, force smiles. They’d push, plead, compete for attention. James never joined in. He didn’t perform, didn’t beg for a glance. He waited. Not for just anyone. Only for *her*, the woman from his dreams.
“James, love, smile for once, won’t you?” a carer would plead.
But he’d only scowl and turn away. He wouldn’t leave with strangers. He’d know *her* when he saw her.
Then, one day, a delegation arrived—some anniversary event for the home. Cameras, photographers, unfamiliar faces. James sat in his usual corner, avoiding the fuss. Until his gaze snagged on a woman—tall, slim, with short hair and a smile that made his skin prickle. And her eyes… *those eyes*. His breath hitched.
Then, suddenly, she looked right at him. Their eyes met, and—for the first time in his life—he smiled.
A carer dropped her tea. In six years at the home, James had never smiled. Not once. But now, there it was—sudden, bright, real.
The woman approached. Sat beside him. He didn’t look away. He listened, laughed, asked questions. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid. Being with her was just like his dreams—easy, safe, *right*.
She started visiting. No cameras, no ceremonies. She brought books, walked with him in the yard, talked about clouds and cities she’d seen. Then, one day, she vanished. A whole month passed. James didn’t ask the carers where she’d gone—afraid to hear she wouldn’t return.
But she did. She came back in a plain jacket, no makeup, and said, “James, I’m taking you home. You’re going to be my son.”
He didn’t believe it. Thought he was dreaming. Pinched himself—sharp pain meant it was real. He didn’t say a word. Just hugged her. Tight. Silent. The only way he knew how.
Later, she introduced him to her husband—a straightforward, kind man who welcomed him without hesitation. Together, they built a new life. The first cake in their flat. The first trip to the countryside. The first night falling asleep without hearing strangers’ footsteps in the hall.
James never went back to the children’s home. But sometimes, catching his reflection, he’d notice it—a light in his eyes, blue and warm, just like hers. His mother’s. His *real* one.
