**December 31st**
Outside, fairy lights twinkled from every window. Inside, families sang carols and hugged beneath their Christmas trees. The whole city buzzed with holiday cheer. But there I stood, alone on the doorstep, shivering in a thin jacket and slippers, my backpack half-buried in the snow. It didn’t feel real—not until the bitter wind and icy flakes stung my face, proof this wasn’t a nightmare.
“Piss off. Don’t ever come back!” Dad’s voice roared, and the door slammed shut inches from my nose.
Mum? She just stood there, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Silent. Not a word, not a step toward me. Just bitten lips and a turned head. That silence hit harder than any shout.
I stumbled down the steps. Snow soaked my socks instantly. I wandered blindly, past glowing windows where people sipped tea, laughed, unwrapped gifts. Me? Unwanted. Fading into the white haze.
The first week, I slept wherever I could—bus stops, stairwells, a dank cellar. Everyone chased me off. I ate what I scavenged from bins. Once, I stole a loaf of bread. Not out of spite—just survival.
Then an old bloke with a walking stick found me in that cellar. “Hang in there,” he muttered. “People are rotten. Don’t be like ’em.” He left me a tin of corned beef and vanished.
I never forgot those words.
Then I fell ill—burning up, shaking, delirious. Nearly froze to death before someone dragged me out of the snow. That someone was Margaret Whitmore, a social worker. She held me close, whispering, “Hush now. You’re not alone anymore.”
The shelter was warm. Smelled of stew and something like hope. Margaret visited daily, bringing books, teaching me to believe in myself. “You matter,” she’d say. “Even with nothing.”
I read. Listened. Remembered. And swore I’d help others like me—discarded, voiceless.
I aced my A-levels. Got into uni. Studied by day, mopped floors by night. No complaints. No breaking. Became a solicitor. Now, I fight for those without homes, without rights, without anyone to speak for them.
Then, years later, two figures shuffled into my office—a stooped man and a woman with grey braids. I knew them instantly. Mum and Dad. The ones who’d tossed me out into the cold.
“Colin… forgive us…” Dad croaked.
I said nothing. Felt nothing inside—no rage, no hurt. Just clarity, sharp as ice.
“Forgiveness is possible. But going back isn’t.” I met their eyes. “I died to you that night. You died to me.”
I opened the door.
“Leave. And don’t come back.”
Then I turned to my desk. To the next case. To the kid who needed defending.
Because I remember standing barefoot in the snow. And I know how much it matters when someone says, “You’re not alone.”
