Chapter 2
Cedar's POV
This child truly believed I was his mother. As I smoothed damp hair from his burning forehead, I felt something stir inside me—a fierce protective instinct.
"I'm right here, Oliver," I whispered, holding his small hand in mine. "I'm not going anywhere."
His lips curved into a trusting smile before his eyes fluttered closed. "Knew you'd care for me," he mumbled, already drifting into feverish sleep. "Love you, Mommy."
For a moment, all I could feel was a quiet tenderness, a sense of rightness in being here with him. Maybe this was what a mother's happiness felt like.
I spent the night in a fever vigil, watching over Oliver like a sentinel. Every hour, I carefully placed a cool cloth on his forehead, monitored his temperature, and coaxed medicine into his tiny body when he briefly stirred. The rain continued its relentless drumming against my apartment windows, creating a somber soundtrack to my worried thoughts.
"101.3," I whispered, reading the digital thermometer at 2 AM. Better than the alarming 103.2 when I'd first brought him inside, but still concerning. I refreshed the cool compress and studied his sleeping face.
Bathed in the gentle light of my bedside lamp, his messy golden-brown hair and sleepy eyes made him look so irresistibly adorable that I felt an unexpected urge to protect him.
Who is this child? And why does he think I'm his mother?
I'd never given birth. I would remember something that monumental.
"You'll be okay," I whispered, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. "I've got you now."
The words came naturally, as if I'd spoken them countless times. Caring for this child stirred a tenderness in me my adoptive parents never had. When I was sick, their care was efficient but distant—doctors called, medicine given, life quickly returning to normal.
This was different. Closer. As if, in caring for him, I was finally caring for a part of myself.
I awoke to something tickling my face. Disoriented, I blinked against the morning light, gradually becoming aware of a small, warm body curled against mine. Oliver had somehow migrated from the bed to the living room sofa where I'd eventually dozed off. His head was tucked beneath my chin, his small frame nestled against me like a trusting kitten.
I vaguely remembered collapsing on the sofa around dawn, after his fever had finally broken. I'd planned to get a blanket for him, but apparently exhaustion had claimed me first.
As I shifted, my arm brushed against his forehead, instinctively checking for any lingering heat. Just to be sure, I reached for the thermometer on the coffee table, slipping it gently beneath his arm. The digital numbers blinked reassuringly—normal. Relief washed over me.
"Good morning, Mommy," he whispered as my movement caused him to stir. His eyes regarded me with pure adoration.
"Oliver," I began gently, "I need to explain something. I'm not your mother. My name is Cedar Wright."
He sat up, studying me with unexpected intensity for a child his age. "I know your name. You were adopted by the Wright family when you were little."
I stiffened. "How do you know that?"
"Because you're my mommy," he insisted, as if that explained everything. His small hand touched my arm. "I woke up last night and saw you sleeping. I was scared you'd be gone when I woke up, so I came to guard you."
My heart melted despite my confusion. "That's very sweet of you." For a moment, I let myself enjoy the warmth of his trust. But then a flicker of worry crept in. "You must be very brave to come here alone... Did your dad know you were leaving?"
His expression darkened. "Daddy doesn't care. He's always busy and never has time for me. He's very strict and gets angry when I ask questions."
"Even so, we need to inform him that you're safe," I told him.
Oliver looked down, fidgeting with the hem of the oversized t-shirt I'd given him to sleep in. "Don't you want me, Mommy? I came all this way to find you."
The naked vulnerability in his voice stopped me. I'd felt that same insecurity countless times in the Wright household—the desperate need to be wanted.
"Let's have breakfast first," I offered, postponing the inevitable. "You must be hungry."
I prepared the only child-friendly breakfast I had—cereal with milk—while Oliver perched on a kitchen stool, his legs swinging freely.
"Your house is nice," he observed, looking around my modest apartment. "It's small, but it feels warm."
I smiled despite myself. "Thank you. It's not much, but it's home."
"Daddy's house is big with lots of rooms no one uses," he continued conversationally. "And there are always people cleaning or bringing things."
Wealthy family, then. That explained the quality of his clothes, despite their casual appearance.
"Oliver," I tried again, pouring milk over his cereal, "what's your full name? And how old are you?"
He hesitated, spoon halfway to his mouth, then answered with a sudden smile: "Oliver North. I'm six."
The surname didn't ring any bells. There were no prominent North families in Chicago that I knew of.
"Why do you think I'm your mother?" I asked directly.
"You have a small crescent-shaped birthmark on the back of your neck, right?" Oliver asked suddenly, making me freeze mid-bite.
My hand instinctively went to the spot where my hair usually covered the small lunar-shaped mark. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Because I have one too," he said simply, turning and lifting his hair to reveal an identical crescent mark in precisely the same location.
I stared, speechless. Birthmarks could be hereditary, but this—identical in shape and placement—seemed impossible. The statistical probability had to be infinitesimal.
"That's why I knew you were my mommy," he said, turning back with triumph in his eyes. "We match."
"Oliver, this doesn't make sense," I explained as gently as I could. "I've never had a child. There must be some mistake."
"It's not a mistake," he insisted. "I found you. I looked for you for a long time."
"How?" I challenged, trying to unravel this bizarre situation. "How did you find me?"
"I looked at all the ladies who could be the right age," he explained with childlike simplicity, "and then I found you."
It sounded like the imaginative logic of a child, yet there was something unsettlingly specific in his knowledge. The birthmark. My family situation. Details that weren't publicly available.
Could this be some elaborate prank? Or something more sinister? His story can't possibly be true.
And He's not my responsibility. I should have called the authorities immediately. Yet something held me back.
I felt an inexplicable connection with this boy that defied logical explanation. Had I been memory erased? That was too ridiculous. Maybe he was a distant relative—someone who shared my family's birthmark by chance?