Roger spotted the boy by the bread aisle in the supermarket. He wasn’t so much picking loaves as he was waiting—for something, someone, perhaps long gone and never returning. Thin, in a worn jacket with a torn pocket, scuffed shoes, and a lopsided beanie, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his mittens like overstretched hand-me-downs.
His expression wasn’t one you often saw on children. No pleading, no confusion—just a quiet, inward sort of waiting. The look of someone who’d learned too soon that help wasn’t coming. Steady. Searching. Stubbornly calm.
Roger had already walked past, even tossed his usual loaf into the basket, but something made him turn back. The boy stood exactly where he’d left him, glued to the spot, as if sheer persistence might change things.
That look was painfully familiar. Fifteen years ago, in a children’s home where Roger volunteered, there’d been a boy with the exact same eyes. No words, just a silent scream: *See me.*
A few minutes later, Roger spotted him again at the till. The boy was queuing with two caramel sweets in hand—no basket. The cashier said something about being short. Without arguing, he wordlessly put one back and handed over his coins. Precise, resigned—like someone used to subtracting from life whatever they couldn’t afford.
“Hey,” Roger said softly, stepping closer, “let me get you something. Bread, milk, maybe some sausages? No strings. Just because. Yeah?”
The boy looked at him—not with fear, but a guarded sort of clarity no child should have.
“Why?”
No challenge. Just a question. As if testing whether the conversation was even worth having.
“Because I can. Because you deserve more than one sweet.”
“People don’t just *do* things,” the boy answered. “Are you someone’s dad?”
“Was. Got a daughter. She’s with her mum in Manchester now. I remember birthdays. Write letters. But… it’s not enough, is it?”
The boy gave a small, knowing nod, as if he’d heard it all before.
“Alright then. Get me some chips. Hot ones. And a sausage. Just one. No ketchup. It’s… too loud.”
They stepped outside. The cold nipped at their noses, the bus stop whistling with wind. Roger handed over the paper bag like it was nothing.
“Where d’you live?”
“Nearby. Don’t wanna go home, though. Mum’s asleep. Might stay that way till tomorrow. Bench is better. Quieter. People don’t stare here.”
They sat. Roger watched as the boy ate—slowly, deliberately, like a businessman at lunch. He held the sausage with both hands, took careful bites. No desperation. More patience in him than most grown men had in their little fingers.
“I’m Liam. You?”
“Roger.”
“Can you… just for a bit… be my dad? Not properly. Just so it *feels* like it. Like other kids.”
Roger’s throat tightened. He nodded. Slow. Honest.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me I’ll catch my death without a hat. Ask how school was.”
“Oi, Liam, where’s your hat? Frostbite’s free today. And what’s this I hear about maths?”
“Got a C. But perfect marks in behaviour. Helped an old lady cross the road. Dropped her shopping first, but picked it all up. She said trying’s what counts.”
“She’s right. But wear the hat, mate. Gotta look after yourself. You’re the only you you’ve got.”
Liam smirked. Finished his food. Wiped his hands like a man with places to be.
“Cheers. Most adults either pity me or preach. You just… stayed. That’s better.”
“If I’m here tomorrow, you coming?”
“Dunno. Mum might wake up. Or not. Maybe. I’ll remember you, though. You’re real. Your eyes don’t lie.”
He stood. No goodbye—just a “see ya.” Then he walked off, light but with a quiet in his step, the kind that said he knew no one was running after him.
Roger stayed. Eventually got up, binned the empty cup. Stared a long time in the direction Liam had gone. His chest ached. He wanted to call him back. But some walls—the ones kids build just to get by—you don’t tear down.
He came back the next day. And the next. Sat on the same bench, newspaper or coffee in hand, pretending to relax. Some days Liam didn’t show. Those days hurt. But when he did—same jacket, same eyes—Roger felt something flicker back to life inside him.
One afternoon, Liam approached with two takeaway cups, napkins tucked round them. Handed one over.
“Today you were dad. Now I’ll be son. Sound fair?”
Roger didn’t answer. Just took the tea. Smiled. No words needed. Because sometimes, just *being* there—no conditions, no promises—is enough.
