Sometimes I look at my office and think, “I built this myself.” But deep down, the boy who waited to be called home still lingers.
I was kicked out at fifteen. Not with a suitcase or shouting, like in films. Just one day, Mum looked at me as if I were a stranger and said, “Elliot, this is for the best. You dont belong here.”
I stood in our cramped kitchen, the air thick with the smell of stew and something sour. The floor beneath me might as well have vanished. I stared at her handsthin, with bitten nails, gripping the edge of her apron. She didnt cry. Only her eyes were 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. Hoped, just once, to hear, “Well done, Elliot.” But then came Geoff. Mums new bloke barged into our lives like a bulldozer.
When Annatheir daughterwas born, I became a shadow. She was their “real” child: pink booties, smiles, photos on the fridge. I was excess.
Evenings, Id escape to the stairwell, sitting on cold steps, listening to the lift hum. There, I could breathe. At home, the air was tight as a spring about to snap. I knew it would.
And it did.
“Wheres the money from my wallet?” Geoff blocked the doorway, clutching his worn-out wallet like evidence. Two hundred quidhardly anything, but to him, a fortune.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He narrowed his eyes. “Dont lie.” Mum stayed silent. Then, barely a whisper: “Elliot, just admit it. We dont want to call the police.” I stared at her and didnt recognise her. Where was the woman whod stroked my head when I was ill?
I said nothing. Packed a rucksacka few T-shirts, notebooks, an old MP3 player with a cracked screen. Walked out. The door clicked shut behind me like a gunshot.
The childrens home greeted me with squeaky metal bunks, bleach stench, and concrete-wall chill. No one pretended to be family here. Older lads tested meshoving me in corridors, hiding my trainers. Once, they put 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 and snitches. But inside, something still ached, like pain left switched on.
The home had a computer roomancient PCs that roared like tractors and froze constantly. There, I first saw codelines where every word meant something. Like poetry, but better: it worked. I spent nights there until staff dragged me to bed. Mr. Shaw, the IT teacherbalding, always smelling of coffeenoticed. One day, he tossed me a battered C++ book. “Here. Might get you out of this place.”
I read. Wrote my first programs: a calculator, then a simple game where a square dodged pixels. Every error-free run lit something warm in my chest. Like finally hearing, “You can.”
I made one friend: Danny, a scrawny lad with a mop of messy hair. He laughed at everything, even himself. Once, he nicked a bun from the canteen and shared it. We sat on a windowsill, chewing, dreaming of escapehim as a rockstar, me just wanting a normal life. He never made it outgot mixed with the wrong lot, then prison. But that bun stayed with me. A promise I wasnt alone.
I left school with top marks. Not for praisejust to prove I wasnt rubbish to be tossed. Got into a tech uni in Manchester. The halls smelled of fried chips, cheap aftershave, and socks. I lived on grants and odd jobs: stacking supermarket shelves, mopping café floors. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
My first proper joba garages homepagepaid £200. I bought new trainers and a pizza. First time in years I smiled till my cheeks hurt. *My* money.
At uni, I found mates. Liam, an anime nut, lugged his laptop everywhere, showing me animations. Ruby, a loud, ginger girl, taught me to cook eggs without burning them. They saw me as a person, not a shadow. Still, I kept my distance. Scared if I let them too close, theyd vanish too.
By thirty, I had my own firm. Small, but mine. A city-centre office, glass doors, a coffee machine that whirred like those old PCs. A team of ten who believed in me. I believed in them.
Sometimes Id glance around my office and think, “I did this.” But inside, the boy on the stairs still waited.
Then came the interview. A journalist with glossy nails asked, “Elliot, howd you get here?”
I told her everything. Mum choosing Geoff. Geoff seeing me as a threat. The home where I learned to survive. The coding nights. The headline read: “From Orphan to CEO.” I scoffed. “Orphan? Suppose so.”
A week later, a crumpled envelope appeared at work. *Elliot. From Mum.* Inside, a few lines:
*”Im proud of you. Im sorry. Geoffs ill. Annas jobless. Were struggling. I want to see you. Not for money. Love, Mum.”*
I stared at the note. My chest felt hollow. No anger, no hurt. Just cold, like a light turned off inside. I spun a pen, watched the city through my window.
*Why now?* But something made me go. Maybe to end it properly.
The flat hadnt changed. Same peeling door, damp smell, dim hall light. Mum answered in a frayed dressing gown, eyes red. Shed agedgrey hair, wrinkles, trembling hands. Geoff lay in bed, an oxygen mask hissing. Anna, grown but hunched, clutched a tablet like a lifeline. Guilt flashed in her eyes. Or maybe I imagined it.
We sat at the table. Mum rambled: Geoffs six-month prognosis, Annas failed business, their debts. She fiddled with the tablecloth like she had years ago. I 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. Met my eyes.
“Elliot, we were wrong. *I* was wrong. I thought Geoff meant stability. Anna was our fresh start. You… you reminded me of my mistakes. Im sorry.”
Anna spoke suddenly. “I tried to stick up for you. But I was just a kid. I couldnt” Her voice cracked. Geoff turned to the wall, coughing into his mask.
Something inside me split. Not pain, not rage. Something else. Like standing on an edge, choosing whether to step back.
“I dont hate you,” I said. “But youre not my family. Youre my past. I came to say goodbye.”
Mum cried. Anna looked down. Geoff stayed silent.
The lift down felt slow-motion. For the first time in years, I breathed freely. Not painfully. Just… done.
Now, I have my own life. I dont waste it on those who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to orphanages. Not for karma. Once, I brought old laptops to a home. A fourteen-year-old kidscrawny, stubborntyped furiously. I saw my own fire in his eyes.
I gave him Mr. Shaws old programming book. He looked at me like Id handed him a ticket out.
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 on, lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
