I’ve decided to indulge myself in the idea that some might take interest in my life. And thus, I will do my best to recount that which I can remember. This is my story.

I grew up in Nottingham, England. My family was very well off, monetarily at least. We had roots in the lace industry, with my father being a high ranking executive. My mother came from very little. Nottingham wasn’t (and still isn’t) a particularly rich area. I can only assume why my mother took his hand in marriage, though I’ve no idea what a shallow man like him saw in her. She was kind and virtuous, everything he wasn’t. His interest in her mystifies me to this day.

My father, uncaring as he was, had an aptness for building relationships. He had business acquaintances everywhere. Their relationships were always transactional in nature, and I am unsure if he ever had any true friends.

I am unsure if I can bring myself to describe my mother in detail. Her death weighs heavy on my heart most days. We shall see.

The lace industry was extremely profitable for those who entered early. However, it was not without its end. Several workers strikes along with the threat of automation made my father’s position unstable, though did nothing to endanger his wealth. There comes a point at which one is so wealthy that very little can rock the boat. Secure as his fortune was, my father lived in fear of it slipping from his grasp. He was not a pleasant man.

In my early youth, I was enrolled in a boys school. It was near exclusively populated by children of wealthy businessmen. It was bland, conservative, and restrictive. I remember little of my time there, save for a few close friends and mentors.

My classmates and I laughed about the monotonous “sameness” of the place. It was extremely easy to get lost. The walls were all the same grey, the classrooms all the same shape, the hallways void of any landmark. As such, navigation was a nightmare. Giving directions was near impossible. When asked for them, a common joke was, “Just follow the grey hallway until you get to the grey hallway, then turn right into the grey hallway.”

My dorm mate, best friend, and secret lover was a boy, now man, named David. I owe my life to him in more ways than one. The majority of my schooling was uneventful, save for the nights David and I spent together. He was a good man. He had mousy brown hair, light blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles that always made him appear fresh out of the sun. His hair was always wild and astray, refusing to submit to brush or product. For the first year, he got near daily demerits due to the dress code. Eventually, after even the headmaster’s wife couldn’t bring order to his hair, the administrators collectively gave up trying. He took all of this in good stride. He wasn’t exactly a troublemaker, though little of his energy went to worrying about repercussions or rules. This isn’t to say he didn’t care, quite the opposite really. He simply had a very strong sense of which rules mattered to him and which did not. Needless to say, formalities such as dress code fell into the latter category. Our graduation was bittersweet. We parted ways that day, no longer classmates, no longer lovers, yet forever friends.

This is a good thing indeed, because not terribly long after, I was in desperate need of help. But I am getting ahead of myself.

After I graduated, I began to take more risks. They began calculated, but quickly spiraled into chaos. My confidence grew along with my ignorance. I spent most every night out late. Several men made their way into my life. None were terribly significant to me, and the feeling was mutual. A typical night included meeting, having a drink, and having sex. I was unhappy.

One such night, I was careless. I allowed a man back to the house I shared with my parents. Unbeknownst to me, my father had been growing suspicious. I know not how exactly it happened, but he discovered my “disease,” as he would put it. Sleeping with other men was not only dishonorable, but illegal as well.

The next day, my mother asked me to have lunch with her. I can still see her face, wrought with concern. I thought little of it. She made quiche, scones with mulberry jam, and a fresh pot of tea. We had a quiet lunch together. Only when I noticed the silent tears running down her weary face did we speak. She told me that I had until my father got home to leave. She had convinced him to wait until that evening to “deal with” me. She handed me a small bundle.

I recognized the fabric wrapped around it as my childhood blanket, something I thought my father had thrown out. Inside, I found my personal paperwork, £3,000 (about £35,000 in 2025), and a fresh treacle tart.

She held me close, kissed the top of my head, and insisted I get going. My mother put herself in danger in order to give me a chance at life. I promised myself that I wouldn’t fail her.

With little time before nightfall, I took the package and was off. My first stop was to the docks in Cardiff. I boarded the train, keeping my head down. I was able to afford a relatively private compartment where I began to decompress. The ride was a little over three hours. I sat alone contemplating my fate.