Life stopped for me the day my little son was kidnapped. I wanted nothing more. My marriage couldn’t withstand the fights and scandals that followed, and we parted ways.
I was still young, only 26. I loved my son madly and lived for him alone. Everything I did was for him—our daily walks were sacred. How I regret going on that cursed walk that day. I got distracted, talking to a neighbor for just a couple of minutes, and my boy vanished.
Just a few minutes passed, and my two-year-old son was gone, as if he’d evaporated! The police only shrugged, blaming me, saying I hadn’t watched him closely enough.
For the last five years, I’ve lived with this crushing guilt, always subconsciously searching for my boy in the faces of passersby. What if, just what if, I see him! Five years of searching, all fruitless, but I never lost hope.
I commute to work by subway, and one day, heading home, I was, as usual, scanning children’s faces, still looking for my baby. At the exit of the underpass, I suddenly heard:
— Lady, please, give me some money. I’m hungry!
I turned and saw a small boy begging beside me. My heart skipped a beat. He had my ex-husband’s features—a spitting image! And he was the right age. With tears welling up, I asked:
— Sweetie, how old are you, and why are you alone?
— Ma’am, I’m almost seven. I’m alone because my mom abandoned me. The gypsy woman doesn’t need me anymore—I’m too grown, you can’t beg much with me now!
I couldn’t hold back any longer. His cheekbones, chin, eye color, even the same curly hair—he was a miniature copy of my husband! I stood there sobbing, unable to believe that in a city of millions, I’d found my son! With a trembling voice, I said:
— My boy, my boy, you’re my little baby they stole so long ago!
I wept, I don’t know why—joy, loss, the child—everything blurred before my eyes. The boy looked at me skeptically, then said:
— My mom died. That’s what the gypsy told me.
Tears streamed down my face, and I kept repeating:
— Sweetie, Ollie, I’ve finally found you!
The boy came with me. I cleaned him up, fed him. He had no documents, so we had to start dealing with that seriously. First, we needed to confirm kinship. Now we were waiting for results outside the doctor’s office.
The child was nervous, his eyes filled with wild fear. He was terrified I wasn’t his mom. But I was absolutely certain—this was my son. I went into the office alone. The doctor showed me the test results. Complete mismatch. According to the analysis, this wasn’t my child.
As soon as I stepped out, the boy ran to me, wrapped his little arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and asked in a shaky voice:
— Mom, is everything okay? Am I your son?
I took his hand and said:
— Yes, my boy, you’re mine! Let’s go home. Tomorrow we’ve got lots to do—we need to get you ready for school.
I believe it doesn’t matter if a child is yours by blood. What matters is that they’re yours in heart and loved with your soul!
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