Barry spotted the boy by the bread aisle in the supermarket. He stood perfectly still, not so much choosing loaves as waiting for someone—perhaps someone long gone who might never return. Thin, wearing a worn jacket with a torn pocket, scuffed and muddy shoes, a tilted beanie on his head, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His mittens looked like old, stretched-out toys, out of place on his small hands.
His expression wasn’t one you often see on children. There was no pleading, no confusion—just quiet, inward waiting. The gaze of someone who’d learned too soon that help wasn’t coming. Steady, searching, stubbornly calm.
Barry had already walked past, even dropped his usual loaf into the basket, but something made him turn back. The boy hadn’t moved, glued to the spot as if believing that if he just stayed put, something might change.
That look was painfully familiar. Fifteen years ago, at a children’s home where Barry volunteered, there’d been a boy with the same exact eyes—a silent scream saying, *See me.*
A few minutes later, Barry saw him again at the checkout. The boy stood in line with two caramels in hand, no basket. The cashier, voice clipped, mentioned a shortfall. Without protest, the boy slid one sweet back onto the counter and handed over his coins. His movements were precise, practised—like an adult long used to subtracting what he couldn’t afford.
“Listen,” Barry said, keeping his voice low, “let me get you something. Bread, milk, sausages—whatever. No strings. Just because. Alright?”
The boy looked at him openly, evenly, without fear. But with a wariness no child should carry.
“Why?”
Not a challenge. Not defence. Just a question. No emotion. A test: *Is this worth my time?*
“Because I can. Because you deserve more than one sweet.”
“Nothing’s just because,” the boy replied. “People don’t do things for nothing. You somebody’s dad?”
“Was. Got a daughter. She’s with her mum in Manchester. I write. Remember birthdays. But it’s not enough. Never is.”
The boy gave a small, knowing nod. He’d heard this before—or lived it.
“Alright. Get me some chips. Hot ones. And a sausage. Just one. No mustard. It’s… too grown-up.”
Outside, the cold bit at their noses, the bus stop wind-whipped. Barry handed him the bag without ceremony.
“Where d’you live?”
“Not far. Don’t wanna go home, though. Mum’s asleep. She’s tired. Might still be tomorrow. Better out here. On the bench. Quieter. Strangers don’t look you in the eye.”
They sat. Barry watched as the boy ate—slowly, carefully, with the dignity of a man at a business lunch. He held the sausage in both hands, took neat bites. Not greedily. There was more patience in him than most grown men had.
“I’m Alfie. You?”
“Barry.”
“D’you think… you could be my dad? Just for an hour. Not properly. Just so it feels… like it does for other kids.”
Barry’s throat tightened. He nodded. Slowly. Honestly.
“I can.”
“Then tell me I need a hat. Say I’ll catch my death. Ask how school was.”
“Oi, Alfie—where’s your hat? Freezing out here, and you’re dressed for summer. Snot’ll be down to your knees by morning. How’d maths go?”
“Got a C. But conduct’s top marks. Helped an old lady cross the road. Dropped her bag, though. Picked it all up after. She said trying’s what counts.”
“Right she is. But put your hat on. Gotta look after yourself. Only got one you.”
Alfie smirked. Finished eating, wiped his hands. Like a man with places to be.
“Cheers for not being like the rest. They either pity you or preach. You just… were there. That’s better.”
“If I’m here tomorrow—you coming?”
“Dunno. Mum might wake up. Or not. Might come, though. I’ll remember you. You’re real. Your eyes don’t lie.”
He stood. Didn’t say goodbye—just “see you.” And walked off. Light on his feet but with a quiet in his step, the kind you only get when you know no one’s running after you.
Barry stayed. Then got up, tossed the empty cup. Stared a long time where Alfie had gone. Something heavy sat in his chest. He wanted to call him back. But he knew—you don’t tear down the walls a kid builds to survive.
The next day, he returned. And the next. And the next. Sat on that same bench with a paper or a coffee, pretending to just pass time. Sometimes Alfie didn’t come. That hollowed him out. But when the boy did appear—same jacket, same eyes—Barry felt something flicker back to life inside.
One day, Alfie walked up with two takeaway cups. Wrapped in napkins. Handed one over.
“Today you were dad. Now I’ll be son. That alright?”
Barry didn’t answer. Just took the tea. And smiled. Really smiled. No words. Because sometimes… just being there is enough. No conditions. No promises. Just being.
