Sometimes Id look around my office and think, *I built this myself.* But deep down, that little boy was still therethe one waiting to be called home.
They kicked me out at fifteen. No suitcase, no shouting, nothing dramatic like in the films. Just Mum looking at me like I was a stranger and saying, Oliver, this is for the best. You dont belong here anymore.
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 stared at her handsthin, bitten-down nails, fidgeting with the edge of her apron. She didnt cry. Just empty eyes, like a switched-off telly.
Before that, I was just a normal kid. 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 the sockets when she asked, washed up. Hoped, just once, to hear *Well done, Ollie.* But then came George. Mums new bloke barged into our lives like a bulldozer.
When little Sophie was borntheir *real* daughterI became a shadow. She got the pink booties, the smiles, the fridge photos. I got *in the way.*
Evenings, Id escape to the stairwell, sitting on the cold steps, listening to the lift hum. Out there, I could breathe. At home, the air felt tight, like a spring ready to snap. I knew it was coming.
And it did.
Wheres the money from my wallet? George stood in the doorway, clutching his worn-out leather billfold like evidence. Two hundred quidbarely anything, but to him, it might as well have been a fortune.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He narrowed his eyes. Dont lie. Mum stayed quiet. Then, barely a whisper: Oliver, just admit it. We dont want to call the police. I looked at her and didnt recognise her. Where was the woman whod stroked my hair when I was ill?
I said nothing. Packed a rucksack with a few shirts, notebooks, an old MP3 player with a cracked screen. Walked out. The door shut behind me like a gunshot.
The care home greeted me with squeaky iron beds, bleach stench, and concrete walls. No one pretended to be family here.
The older lads tested meshoved me in corridors, hid my shoes. Once, they left a dead mouse in my bed. I didnt scream, didnt snitch. Just chucked it in the bin and learned: survive by being quicker, sharper. I got good at it.
Kept my mouth shut, sussed out whod lie and whod sell you out. But inside, it still ached, like someone left the pain switched on.
The home had a computer roomancient PCs that whirred like tractors and froze constantly. First time I saw code, it was like poetry but better: it *worked.* Id stay there nights till the staff kicked me out. Mr. Thompson, the IT teacherbald, always smelling of coffeenoticed. One day, he tossed me a dog-eared C++ book. Here. Read. Maybe itll get you out.
I did. Wrote my first programsa calculator, then a silly game where a square dodged pixels. Every time it ran without errors, something warm lit up in my chest. Like finally hearing *You can do this.*
Made one friendLiam, scrawny kid with a mess of 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 escaping, becoming rock stars. He wanted a guitar. I just wanted a normal life. He didnt make itgot mixed up with the wrong lot, ended up in juvie. But I never forgot that roll. Felt like proof I wasnt alone.
Left school with top marks. Not for praisejust to prove I wasnt trash. Got into a tech uni. Halls smelled of instant noodles and cheap aftershave. Lived on student loans and odd jobsstacking shelves, mopping café floors. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
First proper paycheque£200 for a garages webpagebought me new trainers and a takeaway pizza. First real smile in years, cheeks aching with it. *My* money.
Made friendsJake, anime-obsessed, taught me animations. Lily, loud laugh, showed me how to cook eggs without burning them. First people who saw *me*, not a shadow. But I kept my distance. Scared if I let them too close, theyd vanish too.
By thirty, I had my own company. Small, but mine. Glass doors, a coffee machine that buzzed like those old care-home PCs. Ten people who believed in me. I believed in them.
Sometimes Id sit in my office, watching the city, thinking *I did this.* But that boy on the stairs? Still waiting.
Then came the interview. Journalist with glossy nails asked, Oliver, howd you get here? I told her everything. Mum choosing George. The care home. The code. The headline ran: *From Nobody to CEO.* I thought, *Nobody? Yeah, maybe.*
A week later, a crumpled envelope arrived. *Oliver. From Mum.* Inside:
*Proud of you. Sorry. George is ill. Sophies drowning in debt. Were struggling. Want to talk. See you. Not for money. Just Mum.*
I stared at it. Chest empty. No anger, no hurt. Just cold, like a light switched off inside.
Went anyway. Maybe to close the door properly.
Same flat. Same damp smell. Mum answeredgrey hair, shaking hands. George was in bed, oxygen mask hissing. Sophie, grown but hunched, clutched a tablet like a lifeline. Guilt in her eyesor maybe I imagined it.
Mum talked nonstopGeorges six-month prognosis, Sophies failed business, medicine costs. Fidgeting with the tablecloth, just like that day. I remembered us making pancakes when I was seven. Her laughing as I smeared batter on my cheek. Where was *that* woman?
Then she stopped. Looked at me. Oliver, we were wrong. I was wrong. Thought George meant stability. Thought Sophie was our fresh start. You you were just a reminder of my mistakes. Im sorry.
Sophie spoke up. I tried to stick up for you. But I was little. I couldnt Voice cracking. George turned to the wall, coughing into his mask.
Something broke inside me. Not pain, not rage. Justfinal. Like standing on an edge and choosing to step back.
I dont hate you, I said. But youre not my family. Youre my *before* life. I came to say goodbye.
Mum cried. Sophie looked down. George stayed silent.
The lift down felt slow-motion. For the first time in years, I breathed easy. Not hurting. Justdone.
Now? Ive got my own life. Dont waste it on people who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to care-home charities. Not for karma. Once, I brought old laptops to a home. A scrawny lad, maybe fourteen, hammering at keys like I used to. Same fire in his eyes.
Gave him my old programming bookMr. Thompsons. He looked at me like Id handed him a ticket out.
Got another letter recently. Mum again. Wants to meet grandkids. But I dont have any. Might never. Didnt reply.
Forgiveness isnt reopening the door. Its shutting it for good. Walking away lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
