Sometimes I look at my office and think, *I built this myself*. But deep down, theres still that boy waiting to be called home.
I was kicked out at fifteen. No suitcase, no shoutingnothing like the films. One day, Mum just looked at me like I was a stranger and said, *Elliot, its for the best. You dont belong here.*
I stood in our tiny kitchen, smelling of beef stew and something sour. The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I kept staring at her handsthin, with bitten nails, twisting the edge of her apron. She didnt cry. Her eyes were just empty, 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 Mum asked, washed the dishes. I kept hoping shed say, *Well done, Elliot.* But that was before George came along. Mums new husband barged into our lives like a bulldozer.
When Hannah was borntheir *real* daughterI became a shadow. She got the pink booties, the smiles, the fridge photos. I got nothing.
Evenings, Id sneak into the stairwell, sitting on cold steps, listening to the lift hum. At least there, I could breathe. At home, the air was tight like a spring about to snap. I knew it wouldnt last.
And it didnt.
*Wheres the money from my wallet?* George stood in the doorway, gripping his worn-out wallet like evidence. Two hundred quidnothing, really. But to him, it might as well have been a million.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He narrowed his eyes. *Dont lie.* Mum stayed quiet. Then, barely a whisper: *Elliot, 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 didnt answer. Packed a rucksacka 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 metal beds, bleach fumes, and cold concrete walls. No one pretended to be family here.
Older lads tested meshoving me in corridors, hiding my shoes. Once, they put a dead mouse in my bed. I didnt scream, didnt complain. Just tossed it in the bin and learned: here, you survive by being faster and sharper. I became both.
I kept my mouth shut, learned whod lie and whod snitch. But inside, it still ached, like someone left the pain switched on.
The care home had a computer roomancient PCs that rattled like tractors and always froze. Thats where I first saw codelines where every word meant something. Like poetry, but better: it *worked*. I stayed up nights, until the staff sent me to bed. The IT teacher, Mr. Shaw, noticed. Bald, always smelling of coffee, tired eyes.
One day, he tossed me a battered C++ book. *Here. Might help you get out.* I read it. Wrote my first programsa calculator, then a simple game where a square darted across the screen. Every time it ran without errors, something warm lit up in my chest. Like someone finally said, *You can.*
I made one friendTom, a scrawny lad with messy hair. The type who 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 to be rock stars. Tom wanted a guitar. I just wanted a normal life. He never made itgot mixed with the wrong crowd, then prison. But I still remember that roll. Like a promise I wasnt alone.
I left school with top grades. Not for praisejust to prove I wasnt rubbish to be thrown out.
Got into a tech uni in the next town. The halls smelled of fried chips, cheap aftershave, and someones socks. I lived on my grant and odd jobsstacking shelves, mopping floors at a café. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
My first proper joba page for a garagepaid two hundred quid. I bought new trainers and a pizza. First time in years I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. *My* money.
At uni, I made friends. Leo, an anime nut, always showed me how to animate. Katie, a ginger girl with a loud laugh, taught me to make eggs without burning them. They were the first to see *me*, not just a shadow. But I kept my distance. Scared if I let them too close, theyd disappear too.
By thirty, I had my own company. Small, but mine. Glass doors in the city centre, a coffee machine that whirred 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 start-uponline courses. Sometimes Id look around my office and think, *I did this.* But inside, that stairwell boy still waited to be called home.
Once, a journalist with bright nails asked, *Elliot, howd you get here?*
I told her everything. Mum choosing George. George seeing me as a threat. The care home where I learned to survive. The nights coding. The article called it *From Nobody to CEO*. I read it and thought, *Nobody? Maybe.*
A week later, a crumpled envelope appeared at the office. *Elliot. From Mum.* Inside:
*Im proud of you. Im sorry. George is ill. Hannahs out of work. Were struggling. I want to talk. See you. Not for money. Just your mum.*
I stared at the paper. My chest was hollow. No anger, no pain. Just cold, like someone turned off the lights inside. I sat at my desk, spinning a pen, watching the city outside.
Why now? What changed? But something made me go. Maybe to end it. Maybe to hear why.
The flat was the same. Same door, damp smell, dim hallway light. Mum answered in an old dressing gown, eyes red.
Shed agedgrey hair, wrinkles, shaky hands. George was in bed, hooked to oxygen. His wheezing was like background musicheavy, suffocating.
Hannah sat nearby, grown but hunched. A tablet clutched to her chest like a last hope. She looked up, and I thought I saw guilt. Or maybe I imagined it.
We sat at the table. Mum talked non-stopGeorges six-month prognosis, Hannahs debt after a failed business, how they couldnt afford meds. She twisted the tablecloth edge, just like that day. I listened, tracing the worn patterns on the wood. Remembered us making pancakes when I was seven. Her laughing as I smeared batter on my cheek. Where was that woman?
Then she went quiet. Looked at me and said:
*Elliot, we were wrong. I was wrong. I thought George meant stability. Thought Hannah was a fresh start. You you were a reminder of my mistakes. Im sorry.*
I watched her. Same eyes that sang me lullabies. Now just fearfear Id walk out. Hannah suddenly spoke:
*I tried to protect you, Elliot. But I was little. I couldnt*
Her voice broke. George turned to the wall, coughing into his mask. Something cracked inside me. Not pain, not rage. Something else. Like standing on an edge, ready to step back. But I said:
*I dont hold grudges. But youre not my family. Youre my past. I came to say goodbye.*
Mum cried. Hannah looked down. George stayed silent. I left.
The lift descended slowly, like in slow-motion. Standing there, I finally breathed freely. Not painfully. Justfull stop.
Now I have my own life. I dont waste it on those who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to orphan charities. Not for karma. Once, I brought laptops to a care home. A scrawny fourteen-year-old with stubborn eyes hammered the keys like I used to. I saw that same fire.
I gave him my old coding bookMr. Shaws. He looked at me like Id handed him a ticket out.
Another letter came recently. Mum again. 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 on, lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
