I Promise to Love Your Son as My Own. Rest in Peace…

I promise to love your son as if he were my own. Rest in peace

Oliver was the sort of man who seemed to have everything neatly tucked into a polished briefcase. A sleek flat in the heart of Manchester, a highpaying role at a consultancy, a polished Jaguar that purred like a contented cat, evenings in upscale bistros, wardrobe full of the latest British designer labels. All the trappings were there, yet the quiet ache of love was missing. He had signed the papers to end a sevenyear marriage just over a year ago. In that final conversation his exwife had declared she wanted a life free of children and domestic bustle, saying she was too bright for the ordinary and he too plain for her. Oliver, ever the gentleman, valued honesty above all. His parents, who lived far away in the sleepy village of Whitby, were proud of him, but visits were few and far between.

One evening, after leaving the office a little early, Oliver drove home with the intention of a quick shower before heading to a dinner reservation. Cooking felt like a distant thought. A sudden, mischievous impulse whispered, What if I break the routine? Grab a kebab, a fizzy drink, and have an unconventional night. As he turned into a modest roadside stall, a small boy of about five or six sat on the concrete step, his cheeks streaked with tears. Olivers heart tightened. He parked, stepped out, and crouched down to the childs level.

Whats your name? Why are you here? Where are your parents? he asked gently.

Im Charlie Larkin, the boy sniffed. Im starving, but I have no money. Mums in hospital and Im alone. Its scary.

Wheres your dad, Charlie?

I dont know. Mum said he left when I was born.

How long have you been on the streets?

Two days. I have keys, but I cant get into my flat. I sleep in the hallway. Its freezing, and Im famished.

Alright, lets get you something to eat and then well head to your place. You can show me where you live.

Charlie nodded eagerly.

Oliver bought a bag of kebab, a bottle of cola, and a few crisps, then took the boys hand and set off toward the address Charlie gave. The lock on the front door was high above the boys reach, so he struggled to pull it open. Inside, Charlie bolted straight for the kitchen, snatched a loaf of bread and began to chew ravenously. Oliver set the food on the table and said, First, lets get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes. Ill sort us a meal while you do that.

Charlie scurried to his bedroom, then to the bathroom with a bundle of clothes. Oliver peeked in, offered help, but the boy, trying to sound grownup, replied that he could manage on his own.

They sat at the table, sharing the modest feast. Oliver watched as Charlie swallowed large bites without much chewing. Soon the boys eyelids drooped, and he dozed right there at the table. Oliver lifted him gently, laid him on the sofa, and covered him with a blanket. He wandered through the modest onebedroom flat, noting its cosy feel despite the limited space. On a sideboard sat photographs: a young woman with a bright smile, her features sharp and lovelyCharlies mother.

As Oliver paced, a question whispered in his mind: what was I doing here? Why am I involved? He glanced at the sleeping child and realized the boy couldnt simply disappear. He stroked the childs hair, slipped the keys into his pocket, and slipped out quietly. He hurried back to his Jaguar, parked it in an empty spot by the buildings entrance, and climbed the stairs to his own flat. Charlie slept soundly. Oliver returned to his kitchen, cleared the table, stocked the refrigerator, and noticed a small notebook on the hallway mirror. He brewed a cup of tea, opened the book, and found a list of details about Charlies mother: full name, date of birth, mobile number. He dialed the number, but it rang out of service. He then called local hospitals, trying to trace where Irene Larkin had been taken. The reply came: she was in an oncology unit at the Royal Manchester Hospital. A heavy weight settled over Olivers chest.

He entered Charlies room, adjusted the blanket, and lay down on the sofa, drifting into sleep.

When he awoke, sunlight filtered through the curtains. Charlie was gone from the bed, but a soft voice floated in.

Uncle, are you awake? Ive made us breakfast and brewed tea.

Oliver washed his face, padded to the kitchen, and found a plate of haphazardly sliced toast. In that moment they seemed the most delicious thing hed ever tasted.

Charlie, I discovered where your mum is. I think we should visit her so she wont worry and we can keep her company. Call me Oliver, alright? Agreed?

Charlie nodded. They gathered their things and set off for the hospital. After inquiring about the ward, they slipped past the doors, the smell of antiseptic thick in the air. Inside, Oliver saw a frail woman with dark circles under her eyes, her face lined with exhaustion. When she saw her son, her eyes widened, tears spilling like rain.

My dear boy, Ive worried for you every day. You were alone on the streets, and now look at you with this kind man.

Mother, this is Oliver. Hes my friend, a very good man. He bought me food yesterday, I ate, and fell asleep. He stayed with me.

Irene looked at Oliver, confusion and relief mingling.

Who are you? Thank you for caring for my son. I have no one else to ask for help. I didnt know where to find him.

Mrs. Larkin, please dont fret. We met by chance and became close. I wont abandon him; hell stay with me. Focus on your treatment, and when youre well, youll be together again.

Irenes voice softened, almost a whisper.

I wont leave this place. Its the end for me. If youre a friend, could you take my son to the childrens home I mentioned in my notebook? Ive told the headmaster; she knows everything. Its the only person I trust now.

Oliver promised to try. The doctor, after a brief look, said the prognosis was grim: at best a month, perhaps less, and the pain medication was all that could be offered. Oliver appealed, offering to pay for a private room and better care. The staff arranged a quieter ward for Irene.

When they returned, the new room was bright, with a small fridge. They placed juices and fruit inside, and laid a tray of warm soup beside the bed. Despite the pain, Irene ate a little, smiling at Oliver with gratitude, praying he wouldnt abandon her son.

Days turned into weeks. Oliver visited daily with fresh bouquets, sharing jokes that made Irene chuckle despite her condition. She arranged for Charlies care, bringing the boy to her side. After three weeks, a faint blush returned to her cheeks, and hope flickered in Olivers heart. He approached the consultant, who, without meeting his eyes, simply said, Shes slipping away.

That night Oliver lay awake, pacing his flat, drinking tea, his mind a whirl of worry. In the morning, he saw Charlie standing before the mirror, adjusting his shirt.

Where are you off to looking so sharp, love?

Dad, Im getting married. I thought if I become Mrs. Larkins husband, I could keep Charlie with me. Ill see a solicitor friend, then visit Mum. Make a proper feast, will you?

Irene, weak but listening, wondered what lay ahead for her son. Time was short, and Oliverkind, generous, with a heart that seemed made of goldwas the only anchor left.

The door opened, and Oliver stepped in, a massive bouquet of roses in his hands, a small wrapped box at his side. He knelt by the bedside.

Mrs. Larkin, Ive changed my mind. I dont want to send Charlie to a childrens home. I want him to stay with me. If youll consent, Ill marry you, and well adopt him. A registrar is waiting in the corridor. This is the only way.

She looked at him as if at an angel, tears welling. Lord, where do such people come from? He has a huge heart and could be the best father for my son.

Yes, I agree, she whispered.

The ceremony was swift, a halfhour of vows, a ring slipped onto Olivers finger, a kiss on the cheek, and they hurried to the doctor.

Doctor, can I take her home? Apart from the painkillers you give her, theres nothing else. I can handle the injections, and my mother will look after her. Let her have a few days outside these walls.

The physician gave instructions, promising to call an ambulance if needed. Oliver helped Irene into a wheelchair, feeling the frailty of her body like a feather. He tried to press his breath into her, to breathe life back, but it was impossible.

That evening, in their new flat, a modest celebration took place. Charlie bounced around, delighted, while Olivers mother, Aunt Margaret, and Grandma Lily watched with warm smiles.

Nights were long; Oliver sat beside Irene as she wept and moaned, administering injections, watching her drift in and out of sleep. He fed her breakfast, then served the same to Charlie and himself. This pattern repeated for five days, until the pain finally broke Irenes heart. Oliver felt as though a piece of his own soul had slipped away.

At the cemetery, two figures stood before a modest headstone: a man and a small boy. Behind them, Olivers parents and his old friends gathered, the boy clinging to his hand as if afraid to let go. Charlie looked up at Oliver.

Uncle, Mum said youre my dad now, that youve appeared. Is it true? Will you stay with me forever, never leave like Mum?

Oliver crouched, pulling the boy close.

Yes, lad, Im here and Ill always be with you. And Mum, shes not really gone; shell watch us from the sky and live in your heart. Shell always be with us.

Charlie hugged Oliver tightly, then turned to the photograph of his mother, whispering, Mum, dont worry. Dads here, well be together. Ill look after you, Granddad, and Grandmum. Come visit often, and Ill tell you how we live. I love you so much, Mum and Dad.

He brushed his small hand over the photo, his tears mingling with Olivers. In that surreal moment, Olivers life shifted completely. He finally had a purpose, a person to love and protect, because he had sworn to raise his wifes son as his own.