Visitors were at our house again. It felt like we always had guests. They all drank and drank, with empty bottles scattered everywhere, but food was nowhere to be found. If only there was a bit of bread to eat… Yet the table was littered only with cigarette butts and a lone tin of sardines. I scanned the messy surface once more nothing at all.
Well then, Mum, Im off, I murmured, pulling on my worn and torn boots as slowly as possible. Somewhere deep inside, I still hoped my mother would stop me, that just this once shed say, Where are you going without a bite to eat? And its so cold outside. Stay in, Ill make porridge, send the visitors away, and tidy up. I craved gentle words, but she never seemed to have them for me. Her speech always felt sharp and prickly, words that made me want to shrink back and hide.
This time, Id decided to leave for good. I was six but fancied myself grown up enough to look after myself. First, I needed to earn some money just enough for a bun, maybe even two. My stomach had been rumbling for hours, demanding food.
I didnt really know how to earn money, but as I wandered past the row of little shops, my eye caught a bottle poking out of the slush. I pocketed it, then found a discarded plastic bag and spent the next half day collecting bottles on the snowy pavements. Soon the bag clinked with my haul. I started imagining how Id buy a soft, warm bun maybe with currants, maybe sugared on top. Realistically though, I doubted I had enough for a fancy one and decided to keep searching.
Near the platform for the commuter trains, where men sipped beer while waiting, I placed my heavy bag beside a newspaper stall and chased after a freshly tossed bottle. While I was gone, a rough, grimy man appeared. He took my bag, glared at me with angry eyes, and I didnt dare protest I simply turned and walked away.
Just like that, my dream of a bun vanished.
Collecting bottles is hard work, I thought, trudging through the wet snow. My socks were soaked, my feet frozen. Night had fallen fast. Somehow I stumbled into an entryway, collapsed on the stairs, scooted close to the radiator, and drifted into a hot, heavy sleep.
When morning came, I wasnt sure Id woken up. It was warm, safe, and the air was filled with the scent of something delicious. Then, a woman walked in, her smile so gentle it made my heart leap.
Well, arent you up, little lad? she said warmly. Rested now? Come on, lets have breakfast. I found you last night sleeping out there like a puppy and brought you in.
Is this my home now? I asked her, still amazed by my luck.
If you havent got anywhere else, then yes, its yours, she responded, kindness in her eyes.
From then on, life became a fairytale. The kind stranger her name was Margaret, which sounded almost magical to me looked after me, fed me, bought me new clothes. Over time, I confided in her about my mum and our life.
Margaret was the first truly kind grown-up Id ever met. Her very name felt enchanting. Id only heard it that once, and decided only wonderful women could be named Margaret.
One day, she hugged me tight, just like loving mums do, and asked, Would you like me to be your mother? Of course I wanted that… but happiness never seemed to last. A week later, my real mum came for me.
She was almost sober, but her voice cut through the air, angry and sharp as ever. I still have all my rights! No ones taken away my boy yet! she shouted at Margaret.
As my mother dragged me away, snowflakes drifted down, and as I glanced back, the house where Margaret remained looked just like a white castle.
After that, life turned bad again. Mum drank, and I ran away whenever I could. I slept in train stations, collected bottles, bought plain white bread with whatever coins I found. I kept to myself, never asked anyone for anything.
Eventually, my mums rights were taken away and I was placed in a childrens home.
The sadness that stayed with me wasnt from missing my mother, but from not remembering where Margarets house was that magical white castle with the kind woman. Three years passed.
I lived quietly in the childrens home, not talking much, keeping to myself. My favourite pastime was to draw alone. I always drew the same thing a white house with snowflakes falling from the sky.
One day, a journalist visited. The warden showed her around and stopped before me.
Matthews a lovely boy, the warden explained. But he struggles to fit in, even after three years. Were working hard to find him a family.
The journalist smiled, offering her hand, Hello, Im Margaret. At her name, I sat up, animated for the first time in ages, and began talking with excitement. I poured out my story about the other Margaret, the kind one who once took me in. Each word seemed to melt away the ice in my chest, my cheeks flushed, my eyes shone. The warden was astonished by my transformation.
Margarets name, it seemed, was the golden key to my heart.
The journalist couldnt help but cry as she listened. She promised to write about me in the local paper perhaps, she said, that kind Margaret might see it and know I was waiting to find her again.
She kept her word. Fate had its own plans.
Margaret didnt buy the paper herself, but on her birthday, her colleagues gave her flowers wrapped in newspaper. At home, unwrapping them, she noticed a headline: Kind-hearted woman Margaret a boy called Matthew is looking for you!
She read the article, and instantly knew I was the same boy shed once carried inside from a cold, lonely stairwell.
I recognised her at once when we met again. I threw myself into her arms, and we both cried, as did all the staff watching us.
I waited so long for you, I said.
Convincing me to let her go home that evening took some doing. Margaret couldnt take me straight away; adoption would take time. But she visited every single day.
Later…
Life turned out happy for me. Im now twenty-six, graduated from university, planning to marry a wonderful woman, outgoing and cheerful, and I love my mum Margaret more than anyone in the world.
When I was grown, Margaret told me how her husband had left her because she couldnt have children. Shed felt abandoned and useless and that was when she found me on that cold staircase and warmed me up with her love.
After my birth mother took me back, Margaret thought sadly, Perhaps its not meant to be. But she was infinitely glad when we met again at the childrens home.
I tried to trace my real mum, learned her flat was rented, and shed left with an ex-convict many years ago, disappearing without a word. I didnt search any further. Why would I?
