Alright, so there was this bloke named Oliver who spotted a kid in the supermarket, just lingering by the bread aisle. The boy wasn’t really picking anything—just standing there like he was waiting for someone who might never show up. Skinny thing, wearing a threadbare jacket with a torn pocket, scuffed-up shoes, and a wonky beanie pulled over his ears. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his gloves looked like they’d seen better days—stretched out and barely holding together.
He had this look on his face—not like most kids. No pleading, no confusion. Just quiet, like he’d already figured out no one was coming to help. Serious, steady, like he’d aged too fast.
Oliver walked past at first, grabbed his usual loaf, but then glanced back. The boy hadn’t moved. Just rooted to the spot, like maybe if he stayed long enough, something would change.
That look hit Oliver right in the chest. Fifteen years back, when he volunteered at a children’s home, there’d been a lad with the same eyes. No words, just silence screaming, *Notice me.*
A few minutes later, Oliver saw him again at the till. The boy was holding two caramel sweets—no basket. The cashier said something about not having enough, and without a fuss, the kid put one back and handed over his coins. Precise, practical, like he was used to cutting his losses.
“Hey,” Oliver said gently, “let me get you something proper. Bread, milk, maybe some sausages? No strings—just ’cause.”
The boy eyed him. Not scared, just… assessing. Like he was weighing whether the conversation was worth it.
“Why?”
No attitude, just curiosity. Like he’d learned early that nothing comes free.
“’Cause I can. ’Cause you deserve more than one sweet.”
“People don’t just do stuff like that,” the boy said. “You someone’s dad?”
“Was. Got a daughter—lives in Manchester with her mum. I write. Remember birthdays. But it’s not enough, is it?”
The boy gave a tiny nod, like he’d heard that tune before.
“Alright. Get me some chips. Hot. And a sausage. No ketchup. Too… grown-up.”
They stepped outside. The cold bit at their noses, and the bus stop was drafty. Oliver handed over the bag like it was nothing.
“Where d’you live?”
“Nearby. Don’t wanna go home, though. Mum’s asleep. Might be tomorrow, too. Better out here. Bench is quiet. People don’t stare.”
They sat. Oliver watched him eat—slow, deliberate, like a bloke at a business lunch. Holding the sausage with both hands, taking neat bites. No rush. Kid had more patience than most men twice his age.
“I’m Alfie. You?”
“Oliver.”
“Could you… just for a bit… be my dad? Not properly. Just so it feels… normal.”
Oliver’s throat tightened. He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me to wear a hat. Say I’ll catch my death. Ask about school.”
“Alfie, where’s your hat? It’s brass monkeys out here. And how’s maths?”
“Got a C. But teacher said I’m polite. Helped an old lady cross the road. Dropped her shopping, but picked it up. She said trying counts.”
“Course it does. But wear the hat. Gotta look after yourself. Only got one you.”
Alfie smirked. Finished eating, wiped his hands. Like a man with places to be.
“Cheers. Most look at me like I’m glass about to break. Or start preaching. You just… were there. That’s better.”
“If I’m here tomorrow—you coming?”
“Dunno. Maybe Mum’ll be up. Maybe not. Maybe I will. I’ll remember you. You’re proper. Your eyes don’t lie.”
He stood. No goodbye—just “see you.” Walked off light but quiet, like someone who’d learned young: no one’s running after you.
Oliver stayed. Eventually got up, tossed his empty cup. Stared where Alfie had gone. Ached to call him back. But you can’t knock down the walls kids build to survive.
Next day, he returned. And the day after. Sat on that bench with a paper or a cuppa, pretending to relax. Sometimes Alfie didn’t show. That gutted him. But when the boy did—same jacket, same steady stare—Oliver felt something flicker back to life.
Once, Alfie turned up with two takeaway teas. Handed one over.
“Today you were dad. Now I’ll be son. That alright?”
Oliver didn’t answer. Just took the tea. Smiled. No words needed. Sometimes just being there—no promises, no conditions—is enough.
