Sometimes Id look around my office and think, *I built this myself.* But deep down, that boy still sat inside methe one waiting to be called home.
They kicked me out at fifteen. No suitcase, no shouting, nothing like in the films. Just Mum looking at me like I was a stranger and saying, *”Its better this way, Alfie. You dont belong here.”*
I stood in our cramped kitchen, the air thick with the smell of roast beef and something sour. The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I kept staring at her handsthin, bitten nails clutching the edge of her apron. She didnt cry. Just empty eyes, like a switched-off telly.
Before that, I was just a normal lad. We lived in a two-bed flat on the outskirts, where the wallpaper peeled and the stairwell always reeked of cat piss. I brought home top marks, fixed sockets when she asked, washed the dishes. Hoped, just once, to hear *”Well done, Alfie.”* But that was before Gary came along. Mums new bloke crashed into our lives like a bulldozer.
When their daughter, Lily, was born, I became a ghost. She was their *real* childpink booties, smiles, photos on the fridge. Me? I was spare.
Evenings, Id sneak out to the stairwell, sit on the cold steps, and listen to the lift hum. Out there, I could breathe. At home, the air felt tight, like a spring ready to snap. And it did.
*”Wheres the money from my wallet?”* Gary stood in the doorway, shaking his worn leather wallet like evidence. Two hundred quidpeanuts, but to him, a fortune.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He squinted. *”Dont lie.”* Mum stayed quiet, then whispered, *”Alfie, just admit it. We dont want to call the police.”* I stared at her and didnt recognize her. Where was the woman whod stroked my hair when I was ill?
I packed a rucksacka few shirts, notebooks, an old MP3 player with a cracked screenand left. The door shut behind me like a gunshot.
The childrens home greeted me with squeaky bunk beds, bleach stench, and concrete walls. No one pretended to be family here. Older lads tested youshoving you in corridors, hiding your shoes. Once, they left a dead mouse in my bed. I didnt scream or complain. Just tossed it in the bin and learned: here, the quick and cunning survive. I became both.
I kept my mouth shut, learned to spot liars. But inside, something still ached, like a pain no one turned off.
The home had a computer roomclunky old machines that rattled like tractors. First time I saw code, it made sense. Like poetry, but betterit *worked*. I stayed up nights until the staff dragged me out. Mr. Dawson, the IT teacherbald, always smelling of coffeenoticed. One day, he tossed me a dog-eared C++ book. *”Here. Might get you out of this place.”*
I wrote my first programs: a calculator, then a game where a square dodged obstacles. Every time it ran without errors, something warm flared in my chest. Like someone finally said, *”You can.”*
I made a mate, Tommyscrawny, messy hair, laughed at everything, even himself. Once, he nicked a roll from the canteen and split it with me. We sat on the windowsill, chewing, dreaming of escape. He wanted to be a rockstar; I just wanted a normal life. Tommy didnt make itgot mixed up with the wrong lot, ended up in juvie. But I never forgot that roll. It felt like a promise: *Youre not alone.*
I left school with top marksnot for praise, just to prove I wasnt rubbish to be tossed out. Got into a tech uni in Manchester. The halls reeked of instant noodles and cheap aftershave. I lived on student loans and odd jobsstacking shelves, mopping floors at cafés. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
My first pay£200 for a garages sitebought me new trainers and a takeaway pizza. First time in years I smiled so wide it hurt. *My* money.
At uni, I found mates. Dave, an anime nut, showed me how to animate. Ruby, a loud redhead, taught me to fry eggs without burning them. They saw menot a shadow, a person. But I kept my distance. Scared if I let them too close, theyd vanish too.
By thirty, I had my own firm. Small, but mine. Glass doors, a coffee machine that whirred like those old computers. A team of ten who believed in me. I believed in them.
Sometimes, Id sit in my office and think, *I did this.* But that boy on the stairs still waited.
A reporter once asked, *”Alfie, howd you get here?”* I told her everything. Mum choosing Gary. The home. Nights coding. The headline read *”Orphan to CEO.”* I thought, *Orphan? Suppose so.*
A week later, a crumpled envelope appeared at work. *”Alfie. From Mum.”* Inside:
*”Im proud of you. Im sorry. Garys ill. Lilys drowning in debt. Were struggling. I want to talk. See you. Not for money. Love, Mum.”*
I felt nothing. No anger, no hurt. Just cold, like a light switched off inside.
I went anyway. Maybe to close the chapter.
Same flat. Same damp smell. Mum opened the doorolder, greyer, shaking. Gary was hooked to an oxygen tank, wheezing. Lily, hunched over a tablet, looked up guilty.
We sat at the table. Mum talked nonstopGarys six months left, Lilys failed business, medicine costs. Her hands fretted the tablecloth, just like that day. I remembered us baking pancakes when I was seven. Her laughing as I smeared batter on my cheek. Where was that woman?
Then she went quiet. Looked me in the eye.
*”I was wrong, Alfie. Gary offered stability. Lily was a fresh start. You you reminded me of my mistakes. Im sorry.”*
Lily whispered, *”I tried to protect you. But I was just a kid.”*
Something cracked inside. Not pain, not rage. Something else. Like standing on an edge.
I said, *”I dont hate you. But youre not my family. Youre my past. I came to say goodbye.”*
Mum cried. Lily looked down. Gary turned to the wall.
The lift down felt slow-motion. For the first time in years, I breathed easy.
Now, Ive got my own life. I dont waste it on those who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to kids homes. Not for karma. Once, I brought laptops to a care home. A lanky lad, fourteen, hammered the keys like I used to. In his eyes, I saw itthat same fire.
I gave him my old coding bookMr. Dawsons. He looked at me like Id handed him a ticket out.
Another letter came recently. Mum wants to meet her grandkids. But I dont have any. Might never. I didnt reply.
Forgiveness isnt reopening the door. Its shutting it for good. And walking away lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
