20April2025 19hours
Im back from a long shift at the office, feeling surprisingly buoyant. My manager let me off early today as a thankyou for the report Id finished yesterday, and he hinted at a bonus a nice little £150 extra if I keep up the pace. I rushed to my flat, fumbling with the intercom code, when a soft whimper caught my ear.
What on earth is that on such a bright evening? I muttered, scanning the hallway. No one was around, yet the crying grew louder.
Where are you, little one? I called, halfamused, halfconcerned.
A thin voice answered, Here.
I stepped out onto the pavement and saw a small boy, about five, huddled on the cracked cobbles. He was shivering in a thin jacket, his trousers ripped and filthy, his cheeks streaked with tears. My heart went straight to his throat.
Who are you? Why are you crying? I asked.
My names Alfie, the boy sniffed, I just want to get home.
Do you live here? I probed, trying to match his voice with any tenant I knew.
I dont know. Im lost, I cant find my house, he replied, his pronunciation oddly clear for a child his age.
I decided the first thing to do was get him out of the cold. I held out my hand.
Come with me. Ill get you a cuppa and something warm to eat, I said.
He clutched my palm and followed, his nose twitching as if sniffing for safety. Inside my flat I put a kettle on, then asked, Do you fancy some soup? Ive got a pot of beef stew ready.
Alfie nodded eagerly. As he spooned the broth, it struck me how little he fussed over food a stark contrast to my little niece, who would turn her nose up at anything not perfectly plated. I wondered if he ever got a proper meal at home.
My phone buzzed. It was Arthur, the lad Ive been seeing for the past two years.
Hey, what are you up to? he asked.
Feeding a stray kid I found outside, I replied.
Whos this Alfie? he said, clearly puzzled.
I found him by the entrance. Hes about five, I explained.
Where did he come from? Arthur pressed.
Im not sure. He just appeared.
We heard a faint siren in the distance. I remembered the police box on the corner; I could take Alfie there and let the professionals handle it.
Arthur, Im taking him to the station. Ill call you later, I said.
He sounded annoyed. Fine, just make sure youre not breaking any law.
Alfie, hearing my voice, whispered, Four years old, actually.
I smiled, Right, four then.
At the police station the officer on duty, a young constable named Grant, looked about my age. I felt a small surge of hope; younger officers often seem a touch more compassionate.
Grant listened to my short account, then radioed in. A uniformed woman soon arrived, escorted us to a modest office, and took notes. She assured us that Alfie could stay there briefly while they tried to locate his family.
Thank you, I said, relieved.
Will the boy be released to us? the officer asked.
Alfie will stay under our care for now, she replied, and Alfie nodded, his eyes bright with relief.
I left the station and went straight to the café where Arthur was waiting. He looked annoyed to see me late, sighing, You couldve just left the kid with the police; we couldve gone to the cinema.
I tried to smooth things over. He was frightened, Arthur. The police arent always gentle.
He waved his hand dismissively. Right, right. Lets just move on.
Even after we left, I couldnt shake thoughts of Alfie. Who were his parents? Did he belong in that grim flat? The rest of the evening passed in a fog of unease. I went to bed with a heavy heart.
Monday, 22April2025 18hours
I turned the key to my building and spotted Alfie again, perched on the steps.
Back again? I asked.
Im hungry. Do you have stew? he begged.
I dont have stew, but I can get you some pasta, I offered. He cheered.
He told me his story: his mother had taken him to the police station on Friday, filed a missingperson report, then scolded him severely, even slapped him, and banned him from stepping outside. She left early this morning, leaving only his stepfather, a man named Simon, in the flat. Alfie feared Simon, so he slipped out while the old man snored and made his way to me.
My mum will punish me again if I go back, he whispered, eyes downcast. She never hit me before I think Ill have to find a new mum someday.
I told him Id walk him home. His address was only a few streets away. As we neared his block, a woman stepped out of the doorway.
Alfie! Where have you been? Did you go for a stroll? she asked.
My mum sent me out, he replied.
Are you still hungry? she asked.
No, Katie fed me, he answered quickly.
She sighed, Your mother drinks, no worse. Shes a drug user. Shes fallen from a bright girl to a wreck in a year.
She went on, explaining that Alfies mother, Victoria, had died before giving birth to him. Shed remarried, then divorced, and later fell under the influence of a man called Simon, who had ruined her life.
Its not right to leave the boy with her, she admitted, but I cant call social services; my conscience wont let me. I try to feed him when I can, but Victoria is harsh.
I understood without her finishing the sentence. I asked for her number, promising to keep in touch.
That night Arthur called. He sounded irritated when I told him about Victorias situation. You should have put the child in care, he said sharply.
I dont know what to do, I replied.
He warned me to stay out of that mess. I hung up, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. Later my sister, Margaret, phoned. Shes always been my confidante.
Ive heard about Alfie, she said. You know how I love children. Id gladly meet him.
She encouraged me to keep fighting for him. Sometimes a stray kid appears for a reason, she said, maybe hes meant to be in your life.
Her words stuck with me. I took a day off work and went back to the neighbours flat, only to learn that Alfie had been taken to hospital with a mild concussion after an altercation with Simon. His mother hadnt returned home; the police were still searching for her. Simon, drunk and high, had demanded answers, and Alfie couldnt escape. A neighbour heard his cries and called the police; they rescued him and the ambulance whisked him away.
I resolved then that I would not let this happen again. The next evening I visited the hospital. The same constable Grant was there, along with a socialwork officer, Jenny. They explained that adoption was possible only if the mothers parental rights were removed, which would be a lengthy process.
Other routes exist, Jenny said, but youll need to work with the childrens services.
Grants eyes softened. Hes a bright lad. Id take him in myself if I could, he admitted, then took my number, promising to keep me posted.
A few days later, a call shattered the fragile peace: Victoria had died from an overdose. I stared at the phone, wondering how to break the news to Alfie.
Ill keep him in the dark for now, I thought, until hes ready.
Meanwhile Arthur sent a final, cruel text: Choose: me or your filthy streetkid. I felt a surge of anger, but before I could reply, Grant called again, asking if Id like to see Alfie together.
Of course, I said, lets meet tomorrow.
The two of us went to the ward, shared a cup of tea, and talked about Alfies future. Grants kindness steadied me.
Thank you, I told him later, as we walked out of the hospital.
Dont thank me yet, he replied, the roads long, but youve started something good.
A month later the courts granted me guardianship of Alfie. Grant congratulated me, and I thanked him for his unwavering support.
Now, looking back over these weeks, I see a pattern: compassion without a plan can lead to chaos, but thoughtful action can change a life. Ive learned that caring for a child isnt just about feeding him when hes hungry; its about ensuring he has a safe, loving home. Thats the lesson Ill carry forward.
