All my friends were high-flyers. I, on the other hand, was always the "drifter." I lived for the moment, blew my cash on God-knows-what, stayed with my parents, and spent my youth partying. By twenty-five, I looked around: my mates had started families, bought houses, cars, and launched businesses. I was the only one with nothing to my name.
I tried everything—sales, courier gigs, logistics—three years of frantic jumping from one thing to another. I started to believe I’d never make it. I had the drive, but I was spinning my wheels. My friends didn't really believe in me, and eventually, I stopped believing in myself. "Why even try?" I thought. "Who am I doing this for?"
On my 30th birthday, I didn't celebrate. Instead, I took a dead-end job at a warehouse selling bulk cleaning supplies. The team was tiny: a girl with dreadlocks, her mum (the accountant), and Old Arthur, the night watchman. On my first day, they asked me to set up a PC, install the software, and inventory the entire stock. Between clicking keys, I was sprinting across the warehouse, picking orders and loading crates. Chloe—the girl with the dreads—helped me as much as she could.
As I was leaving that evening, she asked, "Will you be back tomorrow?" "Of course," I replied. "I took the job, didn't I?" "Right... it’s just that most people quit by lunch on day two." "I'm not like most people," I blurted out.
Why did I say that? By the end of that shift, I wanted to run and never look back. But I’d given my word. I had to see it through.
A month later, Chloe and I were a well-oiled machine. We’d developed a strategy, knowing exactly what each client needed before they even called. We’d have their pallets 70% ready in advance. Business started moving faster.
A year passed. On my 31st birthday, I realized I’d fallen for her. I invited her to dinner. Without the warehouse high-vis vest, she was stunning. Over a deep conversation, she confessed that the business actually belonged to her and her mother. I’d suspected as much—I never saw anyone there except them and Old Arthur.
Six months later, we decided to get married. My mum cried for a week out of pure joy. Chloe—who had cut off her dreadlocks by then—and I were so busy growing the business that we forgot about the wedding details. We only booked the restaurant two weeks before the big day.
At the reception, my old "successful" friends were baffled. "Look at Leo," they whispered. "We thought he’d be a deadbeat forever, and here he is in a tailored suit."
Then, my mother-in-law took the mic. She gave a lovely speech, wishing us the best, and then handed me a leather briefcase. "Here, son-in-law," she said. "Everything I’ve built with hard graft—the warehouse, the contracts, the lot. It’s in safe hands now. I’m retiring. I’m done."
Do you know why I’m telling you this?
Because shortly after that, all those "successful" friends stopped talking to me. All of them, as one, decided I’d played it wrong. That I didn't deserve it. That wealth had just "fallen from the sky." Some even said it to my face.
It left me hollow. Why did they like me when I was "Broke Leo" asking for a fiver, but couldn't stand "Successful Leo" who could actually have their back? I thought I’d finally be useful as a friend, but it turns out they didn't want a peer. They wanted a mascot.
But I have a family now. I have my girl (she’s growing her dreadlocks back).
And in two months, there will be another girl—a tiny one. We can’t wait to meet her.
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