The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part four - The Breaking of The Illusion

Well… it ended.

The relationship.

The living together.

The illusion of being a family.

It was never real — not really.

More like a patchwork of duty, guilt, and survival.

A pretend family unit playing make-believe,

trying to act out a script we never believed in.

My daughter’s mum…

she must have known.

Maybe our daughter was two.

Maybe three or four.

I could try to figure it out, sit down and work it all out on a timeline —

but honestly, it doesn’t matter.

Because the when doesn’t change the why.

And it doesn’t soften the what.

Like so much of my life back then,

dates blur, details slip.

But the weight of it?

That remains sharp.

This was the part where the seams finally split.

Where we could no longer pretend.

Where the cracks became chasms and the silence… unbearable.

I don’t remember exactly what led to the end.

The final moment when “us” as a family —

living under one roof — just… ended.

But if I had to guess?

If I go by the patterns I’ve repeated since,

the way I’ve pulled back when closeness felt too close,

or sabotaged things when they felt steady…

Then yeah — I probably left. I might not have though!

But if i did it was not because I’d outgrown it.

Not because it was unbearable.

But because I thought the grass might be greener.

Or maybe because if I ended it first,

I wouldn’t have to face being the one left behind.

Control.

Or at least the illusion of it.

That’s what I was grasping for.

That tug-of-war inside me —

between “stay and make it work” and “run before it breaks” —

it had been going on a long time.

And I think back then, I didn’t know how else to live.

Even in love — or what I thought was love —

there was this constant push-pull.

I’m in, I’m out.

I want you, I don’t.

I’m leaving. No wait… I can’t.

Games, maybe.

Cat and mouse, definitely.

But they weren’t designed to hurt — not consciously.

They were just the byproduct of a broken internal compass.

Of a boy trying to become a man

without the tools, without the map,

without a bloody clue.

I wasn’t trying to manipulate.

Not in the way people think of when they hear that word.

It wasn’t cunning.

It was chaos.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

Didn’t know how to make decisions and stand in them.

Didn’t know how to love without losing myself —

or how to be alone without falling apart.

So I danced between both.

And the damage that did…

well, that’s something I still carry.

And maybe she does too.

After I left, I moved in with an electrician.

We weren’t close, not really — but we got on.

He had a room going in his apartment, and I needed space.

Space from her.

Space from being a dad.

Space from the guilt I hadn’t yet named, but was already sinking me.

Living there didn’t last long.

Not because of him.

But because of me.

Because of what I was running from… and toward.

I remember that first week —

I arrived with bags full of shit I didn’t need.

Literal stuff.

Old clothes, broken things, bits and pieces of a life I didn’t want anymore.

So we did something wild.

We loaded it all into his van,

drove to the top of a hill —

and set fire to it.

Of all places… a hill.

As if I was trying to offer my past to the wind and watch it disappear.

He had a jerry can of petrol.

We soaked the pile.

My belongings.

My history.

My mess.

Then I hesitated.

Just for a second —

a breath —

before lighting the match.

That second?

I regretted it.

Because the fumes had gathered.

And the moment the flame dropped —

boom.

A fireball.

A cinematic, full-body ignition.

I felt the heat slam into me like a warning.

It roared.

And for a second, I was inside it.

Engulfed.

It could’ve gone so wrong.

Burned me alive.

Taken more than just the pile.

But it didn’t.

It just left me… singed.

Shaken.

And marked by something I didn’t yet understand.

Looking back now, I see the symbolism.

I thought I was letting go.

Burning away what wasn’t mine to carry anymore.

But that fire didn’t release it.

It fused it to me.

Like scar tissue.

Like smoke in my lungs I couldn’t cough out.

Like some part of my past watched the flames rise and thought:

“We’re not done with you yet.”

And it followed me.

Through every move.

Every relationship.

Every night I told myself I was changing — and wasn’t.

Because fire can’t cleanse what shame refuses to let go of.

And I was still carrying it all —

ash and all.

But that fire didn’t end it.

Not the guilt.

Not the pull.

Not the madness.

Because just like that pile of shit I tried to burn away,

I wasn’t done with her either.

And the truth?

She wasn’t mine to be “done with.”

But I didn’t see it that way.

She’d started letting her hair down again —

literally.

After years of being under my control,

years of surviving the Gareth tornado,

she was finally going out again.

Being herself again.

And I couldn’t handle it.

I wasn’t with her anymore.

Didn’t want to be with her, either —

not really.

But fuck me, if someone else touched her?

No chance.

It was twisted.

Possessive.

Rage-filled.

She was finally finding some freedom,

and I was trying to chase it down like a hunter stalking prey.

The stories started surfacing.

She’d been seen out.

Laughing.

With other guys.

One name came up more than once.

And just like that —

I was on a mission.

A manhunt.

Asking around.

Trying to find him.

Trying to figure out who he was, what he looked like.

What would I have done if I found him?

I honestly don’t know.

I tell myself I wouldn’t have hurt him —

but truthfully?

I don’t know.

Because in those days,

my rage had no map.

No plan.

Just a spark and a direction.

And I was drunk most of the time —

high half the time —

angry all of the time.

And I didn’t know how to sit with loss without trying to dominate it.

Later, she told me the full story.

I had found him once.

Walked right up to him.

And he’d denied being who he was.

Flat-out denied it.

She said he laughed telling her about it afterwards.

Took the piss.

She laughed too —

but not at me.

At him.

Because she knew what I was capable of,

and he didn’t.

She told him he was lucky.

Lucky he lied.

Lucky I didn’t see through it.

And I guess he was.

Because even if I wasn’t looking for a fight…

I was still fire with legs.

And when I drank?

I was dangerous.

To others.

To myself.

To everything in my orbit.

That chapter with her should’ve been closed —

but there I was,

still trying to write footnotes in the margins.

Still acting like I had a say in who she smiled at,

after all the times I’d made her cry.

That wasn’t love.

That was control.

Jealousy.

Unhealed rage and a wounded ego dressed up as righteousness.

And I see it now.

The story wasn’t over.

Not because there was more love to give —

but because there was more truth to face.

And I still hadn’t looked in the mirror long enough to see it.

The night before I left Ireland, another catastrophic catalyst.

I don’t remember how it began —

just that it ended in a way I’ll never forget.

I’d found her, my daughter’s mum, at her friend’s house.

I knocked. She came out — reluctantly.

I don’t remember what was said.

But I remember what I did.

I threatened her.

And the threat didn’t end with words.

I slapped her.

An open hand. Round the face. Hard.

And I meant it.

It was like time stopped. Then snapped back.

Next thing I remember — I was running.

Running home, drunk, terrified I’d be arrested.

Terrified of myself, really.

What I’d done.

What I’d become.

The memory jumps again —

to the next morning.

I woke with that sick, hollow dread in my chest.

A hazy mind. A shame-filled heart.

Bit by bit, it came back to me.

I’d crossed a line I swore I never would.

I’d never laid a hand on her before —

not like that.

I’d been controlling, abusive, angry — yes.

But not actually hit her.

Until that night.

And I knew — right there and then —

I couldn’t come back from this.

Not as I was.

Not in her life.

Not in my daughter’s.

I called her.

Maybe we met. I’m not sure now.

But I remember the conversation.

And I remember the decision.

“I’m leaving.”

Not as a punishment.

Not as a way out.

But because it was the only right thing to do.

I had to go.

For her.

For our daughter.

For whatever hope I had left of becoming something else.

And I did.

That’s where this part of the story fades.

Everything after that — the move, the return to England — is another chapter.

But what came after still lives in me.

Because even after I left,

she never stopped me from being a dad.

She never held it against me.

Never made it about money.

Never stood in the way.

Despite everything I’d done.

I have nothing but respect for her.

For the mother she was.

For the woman she became.

I may have had a part in our daughter’s life,

but her mother was the one who showed up every single day.

She’s the one who deserves the credit.

I’d visit once or twice a year,

and even after all I’d done —

she put me up.

She opened her door.

Whether that was forced or chosen, I don’t know.

But I know it was grace.

And I’ll never forget it.

That’s where this chapter ends.

Not with resolution.

Not with redemption.

But with the beginning of a reckoning.