Five years previously, Isabella Reed’s world had broken apart.
When Liam was four years old, someone took him from outside their home in Beverly Hills. The cops didn’t uncover anything, not even a ransom note or hints. Isabella sought for five years, offering millions in reward money, but every lead ended in heartbreak. In the end, she buried her pain under layers of work, power, and perfection.
Isabella stepped out of her white Rolls-Royce in front of Le Verre, a fancy restaurant in central Manhattan where the fashion elite met on a stormy afternoon. She appeared powerful and wealthy in a wonderfully clean white designer suit.
As she moved closer to the glass doors, the city was full of umbrellas and flashing lights. A little person ran right in front of her. A child, maybe nine years old, was drenched in rain and wearing torn and soiled clothes. He held on to a paper bag of leftovers that he had found on tables that diners had just left.
He fell and smacked her before she could do anything. The dirty water splashed up and ruined her white skirt.
The air got cold.
Isabella gazed down, her eyes full of anger. “Watch where you step!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the child said quietly. I just wanted the food—
Her voice was like ice. “Do you know what you’ve done? This suit costs more than your life!
People at the restaurant turned around. Some people whispered, while others held out their phones. In the middle of the chaos, Isabella lost her anger. She pushed the boy, and he fell back into a puddle.
People were shocked. The cameras went off. Recently, cameras caught the businesswoman, who established her reputation on “elegance and grace,” pushing a child who was destitute.
But at that moment, her heart stopped for some reason. The boy had a small crescent-shaped birthmark on his left wrist that looked a lot like Liam’s.
She blinked hard, feeling shaken for the first time in years.
The boy didn’t cry. He just looked up, calm and shaking.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he murmured in a hushed voice. “I only eat what’s left… I just want food.
Then he turned around and walked away in the rain, blending in with the crowd.
Isabella couldn’t stop thinking about the mark that night or the shine in his eyes.
Isabella couldn’t fall asleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that mark and those eyes that looked so much like Liam’s. Her heart shook with pride. Could it be that her son was still there?
Before the sun came up, she contacted David Miller, her personal assistant.
“Find that boy,” she added in a hushed voice. “The one from the pictures I saw yesterday.” I need to know who he is.
David, who was always careful, returned back after a few days.
“His name is Eli.” No records, no birth certificate. Lives near East 10th Street. People say that an old homeless man named Walter looks after him.
Isabella dressed on simple clothes that night to cover her identity and went there. Isabella’s world of luxury was gone, replaced with broken walls, rubbish, and a sense of dread.
Then she noticed Eli sleeping soundly in a cardboard box close to an old man. He wore a silver pendant with the word “Liam” carved into it.
Her knees went out. “Oh God…”
Walter spotted her and made a face. “Are you looking for the boy?”
She nodded but didn’t say anything.
Walter said softly, “Good kid.” “Doesn’t remember much, just keeps saying that his mom will be back.” Keeps that jewelry like it’s a sacred item.
Isabella’s eyes were full of tears. She secretly set up a DNA test with some of Eli’s hair that she took when he wasn’t looking.
She gave away food, medicine, and blankets as she waited, but she didn’t tell anyone. Eli started to smile more, not knowing that the woman in the shadows was his mother.
Three days later, the findings came in.
A match of 99.9%.
Eli was Liam.
The paper shook in her hands. Isabella dropped to the ground and yelled out in rage. She had just yelled at, insulted, and pushed her son, the boy she had prayed for every night.
The next morning, Isabella went to the children’s shelter. She had arranged it for Eli through a charitable group. She was going to tell him the truth: hug him, say she was sorry, and then take him home.
But when she got there, nothing went as planned. Eli was gone.
“He heard he was being moved,” stated the caregiver. “He got scared and left in the middle of the night.”
Isabella started to panic. For the first time in years, she quit acting. There were no guards or a driver. She looked for him in the city herself, yelling his name in the rain. “Liam! Hey Eli! Come back, please!
It took her hours to find him. He was shaking under a bridge close to a pile of old blankets and grasping his pendant. Walter, the old man who looked after him, had passed away the night before.
Eli’s face was pale because he had been crying. “He said my mom would come for me,” he said. “But she never did.”
Isabella fell to her knees in front of him, and the rain saturated her hair and clothes. “She’s here now,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hey, Liam, I’m your mom.” I never stopped looking for you.
The boy’s eyes got wider, and he was afraid and shocked at the same time. “Are you? But you hurt me.
She nodded and sobbed. “Yes, I did. I didn’t know it was you. I made a lot of stupid decisions. “Please forgive me.”
After a long time of being still, the boy slowly reached out and touched her face. He said softly, “You came back.”
She held him and cried harder than she had in a long time. Isabella felt whole again for the first time since that awful day five years ago.
Months later, the Reed Foundation for Missing Children was set up to help find missing kids and bring them back to their families.
Isabella and Liam traveled back to that bridge every year on the same rainy day, hand in hand, to remember the day a mother finally found her son again.