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When your life suddenly changes under one small light, when the doctor, without lowering his eyes, says: «Be strong, your son will be a bit different»… you don’t cry. You just freeze. That’s exactly how I — Amy Poole, 22 years old, a mother of two — stood in the corner of the maternity ward the first time I held Ollie’s little hand.
His nose… was different. Big, round, unusual. But when he looked at me with his eyes, I saw nothing else — only love. Deep, innocent, endless love. There was the sound of life in his eyes.
Ollie was born with a rare condition — encephalocele. A part of his brain, in the form of a fluid-filled sac, had grown through a gap in the skull and pushed outward into his nose. The doctors said it could be very dangerous. The tiniest accident, the smallest bump — and we could lose him.
At first, I was afraid to look at him. Not because of how he looked, but because I thought I had to be stronger — and I didn’t believe I could. But every time he smiled — with that big nose — a light lit up inside me. He taught me to see what others don’t. 
People on the street looked with mockery. Some didn’t hide their words — saying, «He should never have been born,» or «Why would you bring that child into the city?» One woman even said, «How dare you bring him into the world?» That day, I could barely stand. But something was born inside me — a decision: no one will humiliate my boy. He is my little real-life Pinocchio — with a big nose, but an even bigger heart.
Doctors said surgery was necessary — to allow him to breathe and reduce the danger. At first, I thought, «I can’t just leave him on an operating table like that.» But then I remembered why I became a mother. To protect. To choose what’s right, even when it hurts.
In November 2014, at Birmingham Children’s Hospital, Ollie underwent a difficult two-hour surgery. They opened his skull, removed the sac, and rebuilt his nose. He was 21 months old. Tiny, fragile, not even halfway through life — and already a true warrior.
After the surgery, he had a large zigzag scar on his forehead. But he smiled. Even though he still had pain, Ollie didn’t give up. That smile helped me rise every day — even on nights when I cried quietly, not letting anyone see.
Now — fully healed — he is the sun in our home. Optimistic, full of energy, unstoppable laughter. His sister, Annabelle, adores him. During their playtime, the whole house turns upside down, but I never say, “That’s enough.” That noise — it’s their joy. The only thing is, Annabelle sometimes gets jealous — “It’s his nose’s fault, everyone loves him.” She even sneakily pulls his nose when she thinks I’m not looking.
But I see. I see the two of them — full of love, fighting and hugging, jealous over a nose, and hand in hand — showing the world that being different isn’t shameful. It’s strength.