There was always drinking, bottles everywhere, but never a bite to eat.
The house was full of visitorsthere were almost always visitors.
“Drinking and drinking, bottles piled high, but not a scrap of food. Not even a crust of bread… just empty cans and cigarette butts on the table,” Leon looked over the table again, but there was nothing to eat.
“Alright, Mum, Im off,” the boy said, slowly pulling on his worn-out shoes.
A part of him still hoped she might stop him, might say:
“Where are you going, son, on an empty stomach? And its freezing out. Stay home. Ill make some porridge, send the guests away, and clean the floors.”
He always waited for a kind word from her, but she wasnt one for kindness. Her words were like thorns, making him want to curl up and hide.
This time, he decided to leave for good. Leon was only six, but he felt old enough. First, he needed money to buy a bunmaybe even two. His stomach growled, demanding food.
He didnt know how to get money, but as he passed the shops, he spotted an empty bottle half-buried in the snow. He remembered you could return bottles for cash. Tucking it into his pocket, he found a crumpled bag near the bus stop and spent half the day collecting more.
The bottles clinked merrily in his bag. He imagined buying a warm, sweet bunperhaps with raisins or jam, though the jam one might cost more, so he kept searching.
He wandered into the train station. On the platform where men drank beer waiting for commuter trains, Leon set his heavy bag down and dashed for another abandoned bottle. When he returned, a dirty, angry man had taken his haul. Leon asked for it back, but the man glared so fiercely, the boy had no choice but to turn and leave.
His dream of a bun vanished like a wisp of smoke.
“Collecting bottles isnt easy,” Leon thought, trudging through the snowy streets.
The snow was wet, clinging. His feet ached with cold. By the time it was dark, he didnt remember stumbling into the stairwell, but there he was, curled against the radiator, sinking into warmth.
When he woke, he thought he was still dreamingit was warm, quiet, and the air smelled delicious.
A woman entered the room. She was beautiful and looked at him gently.
“Well, lad,” she said, “warmed up now? Had a good sleep? Come, lets get you some breakfast. I found you last night, sleeping like a stray pup in the stairwell. I brought you home.”
“Is this my home now?” Leon asked, hardly believing his luck.
“If youve none, then it is,” she replied.
What followed was like a fairy tale. This kind womanLillian, a name that sounded magical to himfed him, cared for him, bought him new clothes. Slowly, he told her about his life with his mother.
One day, she held him tightlike a real mother wouldand asked, “Would you like me to be your mum?”
Of course he would. But
His happiness ended too soon. A week later, his mother came. She was nearly sober, shouting at the woman who had taken him in. “No ones stripped me of my rights! Hes my son!”
As she dragged him away, snowflakes fell, and the house behind them looked like a white castle dusted with magic.
Life grew hard again. His mother drank. Leon ran away, slept in stations, collected bottles, bought bread. He spoke to no one, asked for nothing.
Eventually, his mother lost her rights, and Leon was sent to a childrens home.
The worst part was forgetting where that housethe one like a white castlestood, or the name of the woman who lived there.
Three years passed.
Leon was quiet, withdrawn. He loved to drawalways the same scene: a white house and falling snow.
One day, a journalist visited. The matron showed her around and introduced the children. When they reached Leon, she explained, “Hes a good lad, but struggles to adapt. Were trying to find him a family.”
The journalist smiled. “Im Lillian.”
Leon came alive. The boy who never spoke lit up, telling her about the other Lillian, his voice trembling, his cheeks flushed. The matron watched in awe.
The name Lillian was a golden key to his heart.
The journalist wept listening to his story. She promised to write about him in the local paper, hoping the woman would see it and come for him.
She kept her word. And a miracle happened.
The woman wasnt a subscriber, but on her birthday, her colleagues gave her flowers wrapped in newspaper. Unfolding it, she saw the headline: “Kind Woman Lillian, Leon Is Searching For You. Please Respond.”
She read itand knew it was him.
When they reunited, Leon threw himself into her arms. Everyone criedLeon, Lillian, the matrons.
“I waited so long,” he whispered.
She couldnt take him home at oncethere were proceduresbut she visited every day.
And so, Leons life became happy.
Now, at 26, hes an engineer, engaged to a lovely girl. He adores his mother, Lillian, to whom he owes everything.
Years later, she told him her husband had left her because they couldnt have children. Shed been lonelyuntil she found a boy in a stairwell and warmed him with her love.
When his mother took him back, shed thought, “Perhaps it wasnt meant to be.”
Finding him again at the childrens home was her greatest joy.
Leon once tried to find his birth mother. He learned shed rented a flat, then left town years ago with a man fresh from prison. He didnt search further.
Why would he?
