Sometimes Id look around my office and think, *I built this myself.* But deep down, there was still that boy waiting to be called home.
I was kicked out at fifteen. Not with a suitcase or shouting, like in films. Just one day, Mum looked at me like I was a stranger and said, Jamie, its better this way. You dont belong here.
I stood in our cramped kitchen, the air thick with the smell of stew and something sour. The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I kept staring at her handsthin, bitten nails picking at the hem 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 up. Hoped, just once, to hear, *Well done, Jamie.* But that was before Gary. Mums new bloke barged into our lives like a bulldozer.
When their daughter, Emily, was born, I became a ghost. She was their *real* childpink booties, smiles, fridge photos. I was the spare.
Evenings, Id sneak into the stairwell, sit on cold steps, listening to the lift hum. Out there, I could breathe. Indoors, the air tightened like a spring ready to snap. I knewsoon, it would.
And it did.
Wheres the money from my wallet? Gary blocked the doorway, clutching his worn-out wallet like evidence. Two hundred quidpeanuts, but to him, a fortune.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He narrowed his eyes. Dont lie. Mum stayed quiet. Then, barely a whisper: Jamie, just admit it. We dont want the police. I stared at her. Where was the woman whod stroked my hair when I was ill?
I said nothing. Packed a rucksackT-shirts, notebooks, an old MP3 player with a cracked screen. Walked out. The door clicked shut behind me like a gunshot.
The care home greeted me with squeaky bunk beds, bleach stench, and concrete walls. No one pretended to be family here.
Older lads tested meshoves in corridors, hidden shoes. Once, a dead mouse in my bed. I didnt scream, didnt snitch. Just binned it and learned: survive by being quicker, sharper. I got good at it.
Kept my mouth shut, spotted liars. But inside, it ached, like someone left the pain switched on.
The home had a computer roomancient machines that whirred like tractors, always freezing. First time I saw code, it made senselines like poetry, only better. They *worked.*
I stayed up nights until staff dragged me to bed. Mr. Thompson, the IT teacherbald, coffee breath, tired eyesnoticed. One day, he tossed me a dog-eared C++ book. Here. Might get you out.
I read. Wrote my first programsa calculator, a game where a square dodged obstacles. Every error-free run lit something warm in my chest. Like finally hearing, *You can.*
I befriended Toma scrawny lad with a mop of messy hair. Laughed at everything, even himself. Once, he nicked rolls from the canteen, shared them with me. We sat on a windowsill, chewing, dreaming of escaping, becoming rock stars.
Tom wanted a guitar; I wanted a normal life. He didnt make itgot mixed with the wrong crowd, then prison. But I never forgot those rolls. They tasted like proof I wasnt alone.
Left school with top grades. Not for praisejust to prove I wasnt rubbish to be tossed out.
Got into a tech uni. Dorm smelled of chips, cheap aftershave, and socks. Lived on grants and odd jobsstacking supermarket shelves, mopping café floors. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
First pay£200 for a garage site. Bought new trainers and a pizza. First real smile in years, cheeks aching. *My* money.
At uni, I met mates. Liam, an anime nut, taught me animations. Sarah, loud-laughing and ginger, showed me how to fry eggs without burning them. First people who saw *me*, not a ghost. 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 buzzed like those old care-home PCs. A team of ten who believed in me. I believed in them.
We built sites, apps, even launched a startuponline courses. Sometimes Id sit in my office, thinking, *I did this.* But that stairwell boy still waited inside.
Once, a journalistbright nails, notepadasked, Jamie, howd you get here?
I told her. Mum choosing Gary. Gary seeing me as a threat. The care home, coding nights. The headline read: *From Nobody to CEO.* I thought, *Nobody? Maybe.*
A week later, a crumpled envelope arrived. Jamie. From Mum. Inside:
*Proud of you. Sorry. Garys ill. Emilys jobless. Were struggling. Want to talk. See you. Not for money. Love, Mum.*
I stared. Chest hollowno anger, no hurt. Just cold, like a light switched off inside.
I went. Same flatdamp smell, dim hall light. Mum opened the door, red-eyed, in an old dressing gown. Shed agedgrey hair, wrinkled face, shaky hands. Gary lay in bed, oxygen mask hissing. Emily, grown but hunched, clutched a tablet like a lifeline. Guilt in her eyesor maybe I imagined it.
We sat at the table. Mum rambledGarys six-month prognosis, Emilys debts, medicine costs. Fidgeting with the tablecloth, just like that day.
Then she went quiet. Met my eyes.
Jamie, we were wrong. I was wrong. Thought Gary meant stability. Emily was our fresh start. You you reminded me of my mistakes. Im sorry.
Emily spoke up, voice cracking. I tried to protect you. But I was just a kid. I couldnt
Gary coughed into his mask. Something inside me splitnot pain, not rage. Just weightlessness. Like stepping back from an edge.
I dont hate you, I said. But youre not my family. Youre my past. I came to say goodbye.
Mum cried. Emily looked down. Gary stayed silent.
The lift down felt slow-motion. For the first time in years, I breathed easy. No hurt. Justfull stop.
Now, Ive my own life. I dont waste it on those who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to orphan charities. Not for karma. Once, I visited a home with laptops for their coding program. A scrawny fourteen-year-old hammered keys like I used to, fire in his eyes.
I gave him my old programming bookthe one from Mr. Thompson. He looked at me like Id handed him a ticket to another life.
Another letter came recently. From Mum. She wants to meet grandchildren. But I dont have kids. Might never. I didnt reply.
Forgiveness isnt reopening doors. Its shutting them for good. And walking away lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
