Sometimes I look around my office and think, “I built this myself.” But deep down, there’s still that boy who waits to be called home.
I was thrown out at fifteen. Not with a suitcase or shouting, like in the films. Just one evening, Mum looked at me like I was a stranger and said, “Elliot, its better this way. You dont belong here.”
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 kept staring at her handsthin, bitten nails tugging at the edge 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 edge of town, where the wallpaper peeled and the stairwell always reeked of cat piss. I brought home top marks from school, fixed sockets when Mum asked, washed the dishes. Hoped, just once, Id hear, “Well done, Elliot.”
But that was before Gary came. Mums new bloke barged into our lives like a bulldozer. When their daughter, Lily, was born, I became a ghost. She was their “real” childpink booties, giggles, photos on the fridge. I was just excess baggage.
Evenings, Id slip out to the stairwell and sit on the cold steps, listening to the lift groan. Thats where I could breathe. At home, the air was tight as a coiled spring, ready to snap. I knew it would.
And it did.
“Wheres the money from my wallet?” Gary blocked the doorway, gripping his worn-out wallet like evidence. Two hundred quidpeanuts to most, but to him, a fortune.
I swore I hadnt taken it. He squinted. “Dont lie.” Mum stayed quiet. Then, softly, almost 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 hair when I was ill?
I said nothing. Packed a rucksack with a couple of shirts, my 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 metal beds, bleach stench, and concrete walls. No one pretended to be family here. Older lads tested meshoving me in the corridor, hiding my trainers. Once, they left a dead rat in my bed. I didnt scream, didnt snitch. Just tossed it in the bin and learned: survive by being quicker, sharper. I became both.
I kept my mouth shut, learned to spot liars. But inside, it still ached, like someone forgot to switch off the pain.
The home had a computer roomancient PCs that rattled like tractors and froze constantly. First time I saw code, it was like poetry, only better: it worked. I stayed up nights until the staff kicked me out. The IT teacher, Mr. Harris, noticed. Bald, always reeking of coffee, tired eyes.
One day, he tossed me a dog-eared C++ manual. “Here. Read. Might get you out of this place.” I did. Wrote my first programsa calculator, then a simple game where a square dodged obstacles. Every time the code ran without errors, something warm lit up in my chest. Like someone finally said, “You can.”
I made one friendTommy, a scrawny lad with a mop of messy hair. He laughed at everything, even himself. Once, he nicked a bread roll from the canteen and shared it with me. We sat on a windowsill, chewing, dreaming of escapehim as a rock star, me just wanting a normal life. He didnt make it. Got mixed up with the wrong lot, then prison. But I never forgot that roll. It was a promise I wasnt alone.
I left school with top marks. Not for praisejust to prove I wasnt rubbish to be tossed out. Got into a tech uni in the next town. The dorm reeked of cheap chips, knock-off aftershave, and unwashed socks. I lived on student loans and odd jobsstacking supermarket shelves, mopping café floors. Nights, I coded websites for pennies.
My first proper pay£200 for an auto repair sitebought me new trainers and a pizza. First real smile in years, cheeks aching. My money.
At uni, I found mates. Liam, an anime nut, taught me animation tricks. Ruby, a loud redhead, showed me how to fry eggs without burning them. They were the first to see me as a person, not a shadow. But I kept my distance. Scared that 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 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 an e-learning startup. 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 Gary. Gary seeing me as a threat. The care home. The coding nights. The headline ran: “From Nobody to CEO.” I read it and thought, “Nobody? Maybe.”
A week later, a crumpled envelope landed on my desk. “Elliot. From Mum.” Inside, a few lines:
“Im proud of you. Im sorry. Garys ill. Lilys jobless. Were struggling. I want to talk. See you. Not for money. Love, Mum.”
I stared at the paper. No anger, no hurt. Just cold, like a light switched off inside. Sat there, spinning a pen, watching the city through the window. Wondered: why now? But something made me go. Maybe to end it properly.
The flat was the same. Same musty smell, dim hallway. Mum answered in an old dressing gown, eyes red. Shed agedgrey hair, wrinkles, shaky hands. Gary was bedridden, an oxygen mask hissing. Lily sat beside him, grown but hunched, clutching a tablet like a lifeline. She glanced at me, guilt in her eyes. Or maybe I imagined it.
We sat at the table. Mum talked nonstopGarys six-month prognosis, Lilys debt from a failed business, medicine costs. She fiddled 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 went quiet. Looked at me and said,
“Elliot, we were wrong. I was wrong. I thought Gary meant stability. Thought Lily was our fresh start. You… you were proof of my mistakes. Im sorry.”
Lily spoke up, voice cracking. “I tried to stand up for you. But I was just a kid. I couldnt”
Gary turned to the wall, coughing into his mask. Something inside me cracked. Not pain, not rage. Just… final. Like standing on an edge and choosing to step back. I said,
“I dont hate you. But youre not my family. Youre my past. I came to say goodbye.”
Mum cried. Lily looked down. Gary stayed silent. I walked out. The lift descended slowly, like in a dream. For the first time in years, I breathed freely. No hurt. Just… done.
Now, I have my own life. I dont waste it on those who threw me away. Sometimes I donate to childrens homes. Not for karma. Once, I dropped off laptops at a care home. A scrawny lad, fourteen, stubborn stare, hammered the keys like I used to. That same fire in his eyes.
I gave him my old programming bookthe one from Mr. Harris. 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 the door. Its shutting it for good. And walking away lighter, like dropping an old rucksack.
