After a long, exhausting night shift, all I wanted was my bed. I could already picture myself sinking into the sheets, shutting my eyes, and pretending the world didn’t exist.
That morning, the sky was painted with the soft colors of sunrise as I left the hospital. My legs felt like lead. Twelve hours in the maternity ward had drained every drop of energy out of me
I loved helping bring new life into the world—it was something sacred—but some nights left me completely hollow, like I’d poured everything out and had nothing left for myself.
As I reached the bus stop, the streets were quiet, still half-asleep. That’s when I saw him—a little boy sitting alone on the bench. He couldn’t have been more than five or six. His tiny legs dangled off the edge, swinging back and forth. A small blue backpack sat on his lap, his fingers tracing its zipper absently.
I looked at him for a moment, then looked away. Maybe his mom was just grabbing coffee or running a quick errand. I told myself it wasn’t my business. I was too tired to think about anything except getting home.
When the bus finally pulled up, I stepped forward. My hand reached for the railing—but then I froze. Something inside me refused to let me leave.
I turned back.
The boy was still sitting there, staring at the empty road ahead.
I sighed and walked over. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said gently. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”
He looked up with wide brown eyes. “I’m waiting for my mom.”
That sounded innocent enough. I smiled, too tired to ask more. “Okay, then. She’ll be here soon.”
I got on the bus. But as it rumbled down the street, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That quiet, serious face stayed in my mind all day.
A few days later, I saw him again. Same bench. Same backpack. Same lonely little figure.
I slowed down, staring at him from across the street, trying to convince myself there had to be a good reason.
But then I saw him again the next day. And the day after that.
Something was wrong.
That morning, before my shift, I walked up to him. “Hey,” I said softly. “Still waiting for your mom?”
He nodded.
“Do you know when she’s coming?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just waiting.”
His small hands were red from the cold, and his jacket was far too thin. My heart squeezed.
“Listen,” I said, glancing at the time. “It’s too cold to stay out here. How about you come with me for a bit? I work nearby. We can wait there, okay?”
He hesitated. “But what if my mom comes and can’t find me?”
I smiled. “Then we’ll leave her a note.” I dug through my bag and found a crumpled piece of paper. “What’s your name?”
“Ethan,” he said.
I scribbled quickly: Ethan is with Claire at the hospital. You can call this number to find him. Then I placed the note under a small rock on the bench.
“There,” I said. “Now your mom will know exactly where you are.”
Ethan stared at the paper for a moment, then looked up and slipped his hand into mine.
That simple gesture—his trust—hit me straight in the heart.
At the hospital, I left Ethan in the playroom before heading to my ward. But even as I worked, my thoughts kept drifting back to him. Every time I checked my phone, I half expected someone to call about a missing boy.
No one did.
By lunchtime, worry had completely taken over. I went to get him from the playroom and took him to the cafeteria.
He walked beside me, holding my hand like we’d known each other forever. We sat down with trays of food. His eyes lit up when he saw the mashed potatoes.
“Are you having fun here?” I asked.
“Yes! There are lots of kids here, and they play with me.”
“Doesn’t anyone play with you at home?”
He looked down and shook his head. “No.”
I hesitated. “Your mom hasn’t called yet. Can you tell me her name? Maybe I can help find her.”
He smiled faintly. “Her name is Mom.”
I chuckled softly. “I know, sweetheart, but moms usually have names too.”
He frowned. “I don’t know it.”
“Do you know where she works?”
Another shake of the head.
“What about where you live?”
He hesitated. “No. But when I see her, I’ll know. And she’ll know me too.”
Something in his voice sent a chill down my spine.
“Ethan,” I said carefully, “who do you live with now?”
“With my foster family,” he replied simply.
My heart twisted. “Have you ever met your mom?”
He shook his head. “No. But she’s coming for me. Every kid has a mom.”
His faith was heartbreaking.
Then he looked up at me. “Do you have kids?”
I smiled sadly. “No. I can’t have children.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “But I have a mom. She just lost me, that’s all. She’ll find me soon.”
My throat tightened. “After I finish work today, we’ll take you home, okay? Your foster parents must be worried.”
He frowned. “They’re not. I run away a lot. They used to look for me, but now they know I’ll come back.”
I clenched my jaw. What kind of people let a six-year-old wander around like this?
When my shift ended, Ethan was waiting by the entrance. We walked outside together, and I called a taxi.
He tugged on my sleeve. “Claire, will you help me find my mom?”
I sighed softly. “I don’t know how to do that, sweetheart.”
He lowered his head. “I don’t want to stay with them forever. I just want my mom.”
His voice pierced straight through me.
I crouched down to his level and looked into his eyes. “Okay,” I whispered. “We’ll try to find her. I promise.”
His face lit up instantly. “Thank you!” he said, throwing his arms around me.
On the ride home, he fell asleep on my shoulder, breathing softly. I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and whispered, “We’ll find her.”
When we reached his foster house, a tall, rough-looking man opened the door. His eyes narrowed.
“Finally,” he snapped. “Get inside.”
Ethan obeyed silently but turned to wave at me.
“Hey,” I said firmly before the door closed, “you shouldn’t let him wander around alone. He’s just a child.”
The man scowled. “We try, but he always runs off. What do you want us to do?”
“Be responsible,” I shot back. “He’s your duty now.”
“That’s none of your business,” he barked, slamming the door.
The next morning, as my bus neared the hospital, I froze.
Ethan was there again—same bench, same backpack.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He looked up, smiling. “You said we’d look for my mom, remember?”
I sighed. “I did, but I have to work today.”
“That’s okay,” he said cheerfully. “I can play with the other kids while you work.”
He slipped his small hand into mine again, completely trusting.
Something inside me melted.
That afternoon, an idea struck me. “Ethan,” I asked, “when’s your birthday?”
He thought for a second. “June fifteenth.”
“You’re six, right?”
“Six and a half,” he said proudly.
My heart pounded.
Later, when the ward quieted down, I sneaked into the hospital archive room. Working in the maternity ward had its advantages—I knew where to look.
I found the folder marked June, six years ago and started flipping through birth records. Only one baby boy had been born that day.
I pulled out the file. His name, his tiny footprint, his mother’s name…
Then I froze. Tears filled my eyes as I read the note scribbled beneath it.
She had died giving birth. No relatives. No one to claim the baby.
That evening, I found Ethan in the playroom. He ran up eagerly. “Did you find her?”
I forced a smile. “Not yet.”
He nodded sadly. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
As we rode, he leaned against me again, his little hand clutching mine.
“Will you come see me again?” he asked sleepily when we reached his door.
“Of course,” I whispered.
He smiled, waved, and disappeared inside.
But I couldn’t drive away. Not yet.
“Take me to St. Mary’s Cemetery,” I told the driver.
When we arrived, I walked through rows of gravestones until I found her name—the same one from the file.
She’d been only twenty-six.
I stood there in silence, tears running down my cheeks. She never got to be a mother. And I never got to have a child.
But maybe… maybe that could change.
Without hesitating, I told the driver to take me back to Ethan’s house.
The man opened the door, frowning. “You again?”
“I need to see Ethan,” I said firmly.
He sighed and called, “Ethan! Someone’s here for you.”
Ethan appeared, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Did you find my mom?” he asked quietly.
I knelt down and took his hands. My voice trembled. “Ethan… would you like me to be your mom?”
He blinked in surprise, then suddenly threw his arms around me, holding me tightly.
“You found me,” he whispered through his tears. “You found me, Mom.”
And in that moment, I realized—maybe we had both finally found each other.