The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part two - The Call That Changed Everything

Social services were involved now —

not to take me away, but to help me grow.

I’d moved again.

A different place this time — supported living for teenagers.

I was just 18.

I assume the door to the Christian house had officially closed after I refused to leave my daughter’s mum.

But I didn’t choose love.

Not really.

I chose duty.

A duty born from pain —

from the heavy silence of abandonment.

From the promise I must have made, even if I didn’t say it aloud:

“I won’t be like them. I won’t walk away.”

I didn’t know how to be a dad.

I barely knew how to be a person.

But I knew what it felt like to be left.

And I wasn’t going to do that to her —

not my daughter. Not if I had any say in it.

There’s more coming back to me now.

I had given her an ultimatum, too. My daughter’s mum.

Either she joined me at church…

or we had to end it.

I didn’t follow through with that.

I couldn’t.

Even then, I knew that love built on fear wasn’t really love at all.

This new place — the supported living home —

I loved it.

For the first time in a long time, I was being taught how to live.

Really live.

I was given a food voucher,

did my own shopping,

cooked my own meals.

I was responsible for myself again —

but this time, someone was showing me how.

It shaped me.

Grounded me.

Began stitching something stable into me that faith alone hadn’t touched.

And I remember that place clearly —

because that’s where I got the phone call.

The one that said:

“She’s coming. Your daughter is about to be born.”

I made my way to the bus stop.

Next bus to that small town.

I don’t remember the journey — not really.

It’s just blank space.

Well mostly a blank space.

Maybe some feelings —

a wave of panic,

a rush of eagerness,

just wanting to be there already.

Not for her.

For me.

Because something inside me knew —

this was about to change everything.

The next thing I remember… I’m in a car.

I don’t know if I was beside her, or behind her.

I just remember being there.

Then the hospital.

A bath was run.

She climbed in.

Contractions were coming regular now.

And then — suddenly, no warning —

she was coming.

No waiting.

No slow build.

Out the bath, into a wheelchair, down the corridor.

Straight into the labour ward.

I was doing the best I could.

Holding her hand.

Trying to stay calm.

Saying whatever words I thought might help.

And then I looked down…

What the fuck.

Her head.

I could see her head.

I cried.

Not from fear — not really.

From love.

From something bigger.

My baby was coming.

And she was nearly here.

It’s a girl!”

I broke.

But in the most beautiful way.

I had a daughter.

My own little girl.

I was actually a dad.

I was so happy.

There was this lightness, this swelling inside me.

But the truth is —

the reality didn’t land for a while.

Everything after that was a bit of a blur.

We were in the hospital for a few days.

I remember some feeds.

Late-night visits.

Being kicked out when visiting hours ended.

Bus rides back and forth.

And that’s it.

That’s what I remember.

Not the full shape of those days —

just fragments.

Feelings.

And the weight of something new settling into my life,

even if I couldn’t yet name it.

Every time I closed my eyes… her face was there.

Not just a memory —

like a vision.

Like she’d imprinted herself on the inside of my eyelids.

I was living in some kind of dream world.

It’s so hard to describe.

Impossible, really.

But if you know…

you know.

That feeling of something bigger than you —

smaller than you —

and yet somehow… made from you.

It didn’t feel real.

And yet it was the only thing that felt real.

was 18.

And her mum was still 17.

She felt the reality of it more than I did — bless her.

She carried the weight, the fear, the responsibility…

Me?

I didn’t have a fucking clue.

I was just a proud dad.

Buzzing. Grinning. Telling anyone who’d listen.

But deep down… I was still just a boy.

A naive 18-year-old lad

who didn’t know how to look after himself properly,

let alone a child.

But I was there.

And I was proud.

And at the time — I thought that was enough.

My mum lived just a stone’s throw away

from where my girlfriend lived with her family.

On paper, it should’ve worked.

But nothing about that time was simple.

There was so much going on —

tension with her family,

tension with mine,

and then us — two kids trying to figure out

how to be parents

and a “family” ourselves, in some way at least.

I don’t remember all of it.

Not even close.

But what I do remember…

was the friction.

Arguments.

Tears.

Misunderstandings.

Power struggles.

Clashes over religion.

Over christenings.

Over whose name went where on the birth certificate.

Everyone had an opinion.

Everyone had a belief.

Everyone wanted a say.

And in the middle of it all —

two teenagers with a newborn

trying to hold it together

while the walls shook around them.

Looking back now…

I feel sorry for them both.

For my daughter.

And for her mum.

What the hell had they fallen into?

Gareth and his chaos —

striking again.

But this time…

it wasn’t just me that got caught in the fallout.

Two more lives were now tangled in it.

Two more hearts.

Two more stories.

And neither of them had asked for this.

I was just going through the motions of my life.

Existing.

Surviving.

Not really thinking. Not really coping.

And I know — I know — I didn’t always cope as a dad.

I remember my daughter crying.

Screaming.

And me?

I followed suit.

I begged her to stop.

Shouted.

Cried.

Collapsed into something that felt more like a child than a parent.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do.

She just wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t shut up.

Wouldn’t give me a break.

And I wanted to love her through it — I really did.

But I broke.

And I shouted.

And I cried.

That wasn’t the only time.

Sometimes I was alone.

Sometimes I wasn’t.

But every time, the helplessness felt the same.

There’s a mixture, looking back.

Some really beautiful memories.

Showing her off to friends.

Pushing the pram like I was someone proud — because I was.

My little girl.

My daughter.

I loved sharing her.

Letting people see what I’d helped bring into the world.

Letting them see me as a dad —

because some part of me needed that, needed to feel like maybe I was doing okay.

But then there were the other moments.

The ones I don’t talk about much.

The ones where I was falling apart.

Where I couldn’t cope.

Where everything felt too much.

Where I was crying just as hard as she was —

and screaming at her,

not because I hated her,

but because I didn’t know what else to do.

Both are true.

Both lived side by side.

And that’s what made it so hard to understand — even for me.

We went through the motions.

Both of us, probably hiding as best as we could,

doing what we thought we should,

not because it was working —

but because we didn’t know what else to do.

I can only truly speak for myself,

even if we were both living through it.

But it felt like survival.

Not connection.

Not peace.

The issues between our families made it harder.

More than difficult, actually.

But somehow, we trudged through the shit —

until, eventually… more shit.

There was a party at my mum’s.

My brother’s birthday.

And then — hell broke loose.

A fight kicked off down the end of the road.

Some family. Some drama.

I don’t know how it started — and honestly, I didn’t care.

All I remember is the sound.

The shouting.

The chaos.

And my body already moving.

I ran into it, fists flying,

no second thought —

just instinct.

Someone was standing there, waving a bat —

a Hurley stick, maybe.

Threatening. Barking.

I went for him first.

Cracked him a good one.

Stepped onto a low wall,

launched myself toward him —

arm cocked back,

shoulder following,

all my weight driving through that one wild punch.

It was rage.

But it was also release.

That fight came with a cost.

My family suffered for it.

As we’d already learned —

an English family kicking off in a small southern Irish town,

fighting like we mattered,

was a huge fucking mistake.

They gathered.

And they retaliated.

Not against us.

Against the house.

Windows smashed through.

The front door kicked in.

Maybe graffiti — I’m not sure. That part’s blurry.

But I wasn’t there.

And apparently…

my younger siblings and my mum were terrified.

Scared for their lives.

Soon after, they left.

Got away from it all to let things settle —

and they never came back.

And honestly?

Who could blame them?

It was mental.

But me?

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Fuck that.

I wasn’t going to be bullied.

Not from the church.

Not from the town.

Not from anyone.

Even with her family hating me —

or what probably looked like hate,

but was more likely care for their daughter and sister —

they found it in themselves to take me in.

They gave me a fold-up bed in their living room.

Let me stay.

And that’s something I’ll never forget.

Ever.

That was family.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But real.

In time, we got our own place.

But looking back, I don’t think I was supposed to be there —

not officially, anyway.

I think that’s why they didn’t want my name on the birth certificate.

And looking back, I get it.

They were trying to make sure she’d get the support she needed —

especially with housing.

It wasn’t personal, even if it felt that way at the time.

But I couldn’t let it go.

I had to be on there.

Not because of ego —

but because I was her dad.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

So I stood my ground.

Pushed for my name to be included —

and we compromised.

We gave her a double-barrelled surname.

It was a small win.

But to me, it meant everything.

It meant I was in this,

no matter how messy things were.

Things settled down eventually.

I learned to walk around without looking over my shoulder.

We lived there for a while — and that wasn’t pretty.

But that’s for the next chapter.

For now, I need to sit with this one.

To give it the respect it deserves.

And let it settle inside.