His phone sat on the desk, blinking with missed calls and texts. He ignored them. He stared out at the skyline and thought about his mother.
The group home. The 90s. He remembered every detail. The squeaky cots, the linoleum floors, the smell of industrial cleaner and something sour—the smell of neglected kids. He had been a skinny kid with bruised shins. The older boys were predators. They’d take your dessert, your shoes, your dignity. Andrew learned fast: you either get tough or you get crushed.
One night at dinner, a teenager named Mike snatched his bread.
— “Give it back,” Andrew said quietly, his fists balled up.
— “Or what?” Mike sneered, taking a bite.
Andrew didn’t say another word. He punched him square in the mouth. It wasn’t a big hit, but it was enough. Mike fell off the bench, taking a tray with him. A supervisor, Mrs. Gable—the only one who actually seemed to care—pulled them apart and took Andrew aside.
— “Andrew,” she said, kneeling down to his level. “You’re smart. You’re going to make it out of here. But don’t do it with your fists. Do it with your brain.”
Andrew nodded, wiping blood from his lip. That night, lying on his thin mattress, he made a vow: I will be rich. I will be so powerful that no one will ever be able to touch me again.
He remembered the day he turned eighteen. He was handed a duffel bag with two changes of clothes and a certificate saying he was now an adult. Mrs. Gable walked him to the gate and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into his hand—her own money.
— “Good luck, Andrew,” she said, tearing up. “You’re a survivor.”
He nodded and walked away without looking back. Behind him was a childhood of hunger and cold. Ahead was whatever he could take from the world. And he vowed it would be everything.
For the first few months, he lived in a flophouse, sharing a room with a drunk who rented him a spot on the floor for ten bucks a night. He worked as a day laborer, hauling drywall and loading trucks. His back ached, his hands bled, but he didn’t complain. He saved every penny.
At night, he studied. He got his GED and then enrolled in community college for accounting. He bought used textbooks and read by the light of a dim bulb while his roommates snored. Numbers made sense to him. They didn’t lie, they didn’t drink, and they didn’t leave. Numbers were order. And order was what he’d been missing his whole life.
Within a year, he was a junior clerk at a small firm. He worked twelve-hour days, doing everything asked of him and more. He took on extra work, stayed late, and learned from anyone smarter than him. The owner, a grizzled veteran, took notice.
— “You’re hungry, kid,” he said one day. “That’s good. Hungry men get things done.”
Andrew nodded. Hungry. Yes, he was hungry. Hungry for money, for status, for the moment he could tell the world, “I won.”
By twenty-five, he had his own small real estate firm. He took risks, worked through the night, and clawed his way up. He fell, he got back up, and he never quit. By thirty, he was a millionaire. An office in the Loop, two cars, a penthouse. Everything he’d dreamed of in that group home had come true. He’d done it alone. No help, no family.
But standing at his window now, looking down at the city, he felt a familiar void. It was cold, like that room in the group home. He had everything, but he wasn’t happy. Money didn’t keep him warm. Success didn’t fill the hole in his chest that opened the day his mother didn’t come back for him.
And now, looking at a photo of Paulie on his desk, Andrew realized he was making the same mistake. Instead of bourbon, he chose work. Instead of a bottle, he chose a balance sheet. But the result was the same—his son was growing up alone, without a father. The realization hit him harder than anything he’d faced in the foster system.
— “Andrew, you with me?”
Andrew blinked and turned to his partner, Mark. Mark was standing by the desk, looking concerned.
— “You’re a million miles away,” Mark said. “What’s going on?”
— “Nothing,” Andrew snapped, leaning back. “Just tired.”
Mark narrowed his eyes.
— “I’ve known you fifteen years,” he said. “You don’t get tired. You’re a machine. What really happened out there?”
Andrew didn’t answer. Mark sighed and walked out, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Andrew walked into the living room and tossed his jacket on the sofa. The nanny, a kind older woman, met him in the hall.
— “Paulie didn’t eat dinner,” she said softly. “He’s just been staring out the window all day. He won’t talk.”
Andrew nodded and walked into the boy’s room. Paulie was sitting on the window seat, hugging his knees. Outside, the sun was setting over Lake Michigan.
— “Hey, champ,” Andrew said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What’s up?”
Paulie didn’t answer. He kept staring at the horizon.
— “Talk to me,” Andrew pleaded, his voice softening. “Please.”
Paulie slowly turned his head. His eyes were red from crying.
— “I want to go back to Grandma Ellie’s,” he said quietly.
— “Forget about her,” Andrew said sharply. “She’s not who you think she is. She’s a person who walks away. Understand?”
Paulie slid off the window seat and stood in front of his father. He was small, but his gaze was steady.
— “She didn’t walk away from me,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’re the one who walks away.”
Andrew went still. His son’s words felt like a physical slap.
— “What did you say?”
Comments are closed.