There were guests in our house. There were almost always guests.
Everyone was drinking, bottles littered the table, but there was hardly any food. Not even a crust of bread to be found… Only cigarette butts and an empty tin of sardines sat on the tableI’d looked all over twice but there was really nothing.
Right then, Mum, Im off, I said, pulling on my battered old shoes with deliberate slowness.
I couldnt help but hope that this time Mum might stop me. Maybe shed say, Where are you going, hungry, and its cold outside? Stay here. Ill make some porridge and send the guests away, give the place a clean.
I always waited for a kind word from her, but Mum wasnt one for that sort of thing. Her words were sharp, spiky, making me want to shrink away and hide.
That day, at six years old, I decided I was leaving for good. I thought myself rather grown up. My stomach was rumbling, so I figured Id try to earn some money, buy a bunmaybe even two.
I didnt have the faintest idea how to earn money, but passing the local shops I spotted a bottle half-buried in the snow, so I tucked it in my pocket. Then I found a discarded carrier bag, and spent most of the day roaming about, collecting bottles.
The bag was soon full, rattling loudly with glass. Already I pictured buying a soft, fragrant bunperhaps with currants, or maybe a swirl of icing on topthough I reasoned I wouldnt have enough bottles for the icing, so I kept looking to be sure.
I wandered towards the train platform, where men waited for their commuter trains and drank beer. I set my heavy bag down next to a kiosk and dashed after a freshly discarded bottle. While I was off, some grubby, miserable old man came by. He nicked all my bottles, giving me such a fierce look, I had no choice but to turn away and leave.
The dream of the bun faded, like a mirage.
Collecting bottles is actually hard work, I thought, trudging along the slushy pavements.
The snow was wet and clingy, soaking through my shoes and making my feet freeze. It got very dark. I barely remember ending up in the entryway of some block of flats, collapsing on the cold stairwell, rolling close to the radiator and drifting into a warm sleep.
When I woke, I wondered if I was still dreaming, because it was warm, peaceful, and cosier than anything I could recalland there was a delicious smell in the air.
Then in came a woman, her smile so gentle.
Well, boy, she asked kindly, are you warmed up? Had a bit of sleep? Lets get you some breakfast then. I saw you curled up in the stairwell last night, just like a lost puppy. I brought you home with me.
Is this my home now? I asked, hardly believing my luck.
If youve got nowhere else, then yes, it will be, she replied.
What followed felt like a fairy tale. This stranger fed me, cared for me, bought new clothes. Piece by piece, I told her about life with Mum.
This kindly aunt had the most magical name: Daisy. Common enough, but Id never heard it before, and to me, it sounded like a fairys name.
Would you like me to be your mum? she asked one day, hugging me close, just like a real loving mother.
Of course I wanted that, butmy fortunate days ended abruptly. Within a week, Mum appeared.
She was almost sober and hollered furiously at Daisy: Ive still got rights as his mother, no ones taken that from me!
When she dragged me away, snowflakes drifted down, and to me Daisys house looked just like a white castle.
Afterwards, life turned dreadful. Mum drank all the time, and I ran away. Slept at stations, collected bottles, bought bread. Didnt meet anyone, didnt ask for anything.
Eventually, Mum lost her parental rights, and I was sent to a childrens home.
The saddest thing was, I couldnt remember where the white castle house wasthe one with the kind woman with the fairys name.
Three years passed.
I still lived at the childrens home. I kept to myself, rarely spoke. My favourite thing was finding a quiet spot to draw. Every time, I drew the same picture: a white house and snow falling from the sky.
One day, a journalist visited. The carer led her from room to room, introducing the children. When they came to me, the carer said, Johns a decent boy, interesting too, but he struggles to fit in here, even after three years. Were working to find him a family.
The journalist knelt beside me. Hello, Im Daisy. Lovely to meet you.
Suddenly, I sat up, came alive, and spoke! I babbled away about the other kind lady named Daisy. With every sentence, I felt myself thaw inside; my eyes shone, my cheeks flushed. The carer watched my transformation with surprise.
Daisys name had unlocked my heart.
The journalist Daisy couldnt help crying as she listened to my story. She promised to print it in the local newspaper, hoping the kind woman might see it and know I was waiting for her.
She kept her promise. And thena miracle.
That woman didnt subscribe to the newspaper, but it was her birthday, and her colleagues at work had given her a bouquet. Since it was winter, theyd wrapped it up in newspaper. At home, unwrapping the flowers, she saw the headline: Kind Woman Daisy, a boy named John is searching for you!
She read the article, instantly knowing it was methe little boy shed once rescued from a stairwell, wanting to adopt.
I recognised her the moment we met again. I rushed to her arms. We hugged. We all criedme, Daisy, even the caretakers watching.
I waited for you, I said.
It took persuasion to convince me to let Daisy go home that day. Adoption would take time, but she promised to visit every single day.
P.S.
After that, my life turned out happy. Im twenty-six now, a university graduate, about to marry a wonderful womana cheerful, friendly chap, and I adore my mum Daisy, to whom I owe everything.
Years later, Daisy told me her husband had left her because she couldnt have children. Shed felt miserable, unwantedand it was then she found me on the cold landing and shared her love.
After Mum took me away, Daisy thought, Perhaps it wasnt meant to be. She was overjoyed when fate led her back to me at the childrens home.
I tried to find out what happened to my birth mother. I learnt wed lived in a rented flat, and years ago shed gone off with a man newly released from prison, destination unknown. I didnt look further. Why would I?
If lifes taught me one thing, its that sometimes the family you find can mean far more than the one youre born with. And kindness, given or received, can change a life forever.
