After a long night shift, all I wanted was to fall into bed and forget the world existed. That morning, I was beyond exhausted—my legs ached, my eyes burned, and my brain felt like it was running on fumes.
I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the maternity ward. I loved my job—it was beautiful, bringing life into the world—but that night had been brutal. Too many emergencies, too many tears, and too many goodbyes to mothers who never got to hold their babies.
As I walked toward the bus stop, the city was only just waking up. The streets were quiet, and the air carried that sharp chill of early morning. That’s when I saw him—a small boy, maybe five or six years old, sitting alone on the bench.
His little legs dangled off the edge, a blue backpack resting on his knees. He looked like he’d been waiting for a while. I paused, watching him for a moment, then told myself not to get involved. His mom must be nearby, I thought. Maybe she ran into a café or was buying tickets.
When the bus finally arrived, I stepped forward to get on. But just as my foot touched the step, something in me hesitated. A quiet voice inside whispered, Look back.
I turned—and there he was, still sitting there, hugging his backpack.
I walked back slowly. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said gently. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”
He looked up at me with wide brown eyes and said, “I’m waiting for my mom.”
It seemed simple enough. I was so tired that I just smiled, nodded, and got on the bus. But even as the city rolled past my window, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His calmness, the way he sat there alone—it didn’t sit right with me.
A few days later, on my way to work, I saw him again. Same bench. Same little backpack. Same stillness.
My heart started to race. No way, I thought. He can’t still be waiting.
But then the next morning—he was there again. That was it. I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I crossed the street and 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.”
The air was freezing that morning. His jacket looked too thin, and his fingers were red from the cold. I checked the time—I was late for work already—but my heart wouldn’t let me leave him there.
“Listen,” I said. “It’s too cold to stay out here. How about you come with me for a bit? I work nearby. We can wait for your mom there.”
He looked uncertain. “But what if my mom comes and can’t find me?”
I pulled out a crumpled paper from my bag. “Then we’ll leave her a note. What’s your name?”
“Ethan,” he said quietly.
I wrote: Ethan is with Claire at the hospital. You can call this number to find him. Then I weighed the note down with a small rock on the bench.
“There,” I said, smiling. “Now your mom will know exactly where you are.”
Ethan stared at the note, then looked up at me and slipped his small hand into mine. That simple gesture nearly broke me.
At the hospital, I dropped him off in the playroom before heading to my ward. The day was busy as usual—crying newborns, tired mothers, doctors rushing everywhere—but my thoughts kept drifting back to Ethan.
By lunchtime, no one had called about a missing boy.
I found him in the playroom, laughing with the other kids. We went to the cafeteria, and I got him mashed potatoes. He grinned, spooning them into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Are you having fun here?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes! There are lots of kids here, and they play with me.”
“Doesn’t anyone play with you at home?”
He lowered his eyes. “No.”
My chest tightened. “Your mom hasn’t called yet,” I said carefully. “Do you know her name? Maybe I can help find her.”
He smiled shyly. “Her name is Mom.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Of course. But moms usually have other names too.”
“I don’t know it,” he said, frowning.
“Do you know where she works? Or where you live?”
He shook his head. “No. But when I see her, I’ll know. And she’ll know me too.”
Something inside me went cold. His voice was so sure, so innocent, but his words—his hope—hurt to hear.
“Ethan,” I asked softly, “who do you live with now?”
“With my foster family,” he said.
My heart dropped. “Have you ever met your mom?”
He shook his head. “No. But she’s coming for me. Every kid has a mom.”
His little voice cracked, and I could barely speak. “Do you have kids?” he asked suddenly.
I smiled sadly. “No. I can’t have children.”
He nodded seriously. “It’s okay. My mom lost me, but she’ll find me soon.”
When my shift ended, Ethan was waiting by the door. “Claire,” he whispered, “will you help me find my mom?”
I froze. “I don’t know how to do that, sweetheart.”
He looked down. “I don’t want to stay with them forever. I just want my mom.”
That plea—it shattered me. I knelt in front of him and said softly, “Okay. We’ll try to find her. I promise.”
His face lit up. He threw his little arms around my neck and whispered, “Thank you.”
In the taxi, he fell asleep against me, his head resting on my shoulder. I brushed his hair gently and whispered, “We’ll find her.”
When we reached his foster home, a tall, tired-looking man opened the door. “Finally,” he snapped. “Get inside.”
Ethan obeyed silently, but before he went in, he turned and waved.
“You shouldn’t let him wander around alone,” I said firmly. “He’s just a child.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “We try. He runs off all the time. What do you want us to do?”
“Be responsible,” I said sharply. “He’s your duty now.”
“That’s none of your business,” he barked before slamming the door in my face.
The next morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. But when I stepped off the bus near the hospital—my heart stopped.
He was there again. Same bench. Same backpack.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He smiled. “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 took my hand again, trusting, hopeful. That trust lit something inside me—a fierce determination.
“Ethan,” I said suddenly, “when’s your birthday?”
“June fifteenth,” he answered proudly. “I’m six and a half.”
My mind started racing. I knew exactly where to look.
Later that day, I slipped into the hospital’s archive room. Rows and rows of birth records filled the shelves. I searched for June—six years ago—and there it was. One baby boy born that day.
Ethan.
I scanned the page, and my breath caught when I read the mother’s name. Tears filled my eyes. I pressed a hand over my mouth, trying not to sob.
She had died giving birth. Twenty-six years old. No relatives listed. No one ever came for her baby.
After my shift, I found Ethan waiting for me again. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Did you find her?”
I forced a smile. “Not yet,” I lied.
He nodded bravely. “It’s okay. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Come on,” I said gently. “Let’s get you home.”
When we arrived at his foster house, he asked, “Will you come see me again?”
“Of course,” I said. He smiled sleepily and went inside.
But I didn’t go home. Instead, I gave the taxi driver another address—the cemetery.
I walked through rows of gravestones until I found it. Her name. Ethan’s mother. Only twenty-six.
She never got to hold her son. And I’d never gotten to have one.
I stood there for a long time before whispering, “You can rest now. I’ll take care of him.”
That night, I returned to Ethan’s house. The same man opened the door, frowning. “You again?”
“I need to see Ethan,” I said firmly.
He called out, “Ethan! Someone’s here for you.”
Ethan came running, eyes wide. “Did you find my mom?” he asked, his little voice trembling with hope.
I knelt down, tears blurring my vision. “Ethan,” I whispered, “would you like me to be your mom?”
He stared at me for a second, then threw his arms around my neck, hugging me as tight as he could. “You found me,” he sobbed softly. “You found me, Mom.”
And in that moment, I knew—it wasn’t just Ethan who’d been waiting all along. I had too.