Oliver’s small hands grasp the edge of the old wooden table, his fingers tracing the worn grooves in the wood as if trying to memorize every detail. His hair is slightly messy, and his eyes—wide and innocent—are filled with wonder as he watches the world around him. He’s always been quiet, often observing before speaking, but there’s a spark in his eyes that hints at the curious mind beneath the surface.

You’ve been his mother for only a year, but in that time, you’ve seen him transform from a frightened, silent boy to one who, though still unsure at times, shows glimpses of the loving child he can be.

Now, as you sit together in the living room, watching him carefully place his toy train on the tracks, Oliver glances up at you. “Mama,” he says quietly, his voice soft but full of a question.