The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part two - Left Behind With Nowhere To Belong

After my dad left, everything began to unravel. Something in me shifted. My behaviour took a turn, and I started acting out in ways that were challenging for my whole family — especially my mum. In my head, it was my fault he had left. That’s what everyone thought, so I believed it too.

I’d run away from home — not far, but I’d be gone long enough into the night that the police would end up being called to look for me. It was a turbulent period — a whirlwind of confusion and rebellion — that ultimately led to the moment I found myself sitting, bag packed, waiting for social services.

I remember the day like a hazy snapshot, the edges blurred by time and the confusion of a child’s mind. My mum was struggling, and so was I, though I couldn’t fully grasp why. All I knew was that I had a bag ready and my Pet Monster with me — that bright, wild-looking toy with little plastic handcuffs it could break out of, just like in the advert. He felt strong. And I needed that.

I sat there, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on my small shoulders. My mum was upset. I was scared — the kind of fear that creeps in when something big is happening and no one’s really explaining it. My siblings were there too, their faces mirroring my own confusion.

Then I remember walking out to the car. I don’t recall much about it — just climbing in, clutching my Pet Monster, and staring out the window. Mum was in the front, along with the social worker who was driving. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I wasn’t going home. I knew I was being taken somewhere else — somewhere that wasn’t home.

I don’t remember the journey itself, or the exact moment I arrived at what would become my first foster home. What I do remember is the overwhelming sense of being lost. Torn away from my mum. The fear of being dropped somewhere I didn’t want to be. I remember begging not to be left there — not because I had somewhere better to go, but because I didn’t want to be left behind.

The house itself is a blur. I remember an older lady — she was to be my foster mum. No husband, no other kids. Just her and now me. I recall a spiral staircase with black wrought iron railings, and a small room that was meant to be mine. The staircase sticks in my mind even now — cold metal winding upward like the twist of emotions inside me.

The rest is fragments. Fleeting moments. I don’t know how long I stayed. It could’ve been days, maybe weeks. I just remember floating through it, untethered. Watched, but not seen. Looked after, but not really held.

There were a couple of longer-term foster homes over the next few years where I settled more — but I never felt like I belonged.

In one of the homes, there were other children already living there. I wasn’t comfortable. I shared a room with their son. I felt like I was in the way, like I didn’t really fit into his world. I don’t think he liked me much. I was there for around a year, and then I was integrated back into my own family.

But that didn’t last.

I ended up in care again — this time with a different foster family. They didn’t have young children, just adult ones who no longer lived at home. And for a while, I felt more at ease. The energy in the house was calmer, and I felt like I could breathe a little easier.

But even there, the cracks showed. I remember my foster mum once told me I should’ve been an only child — that I was never meant to be born into a big family.

It wasn’t a fair thing to say… but it stuck with me. And in some strange way, it made sense. It fit how I felt inside: out of place, too much, like maybe I was taking up space that wasn’t really mine to begin with — space I didn’t have a right to after I’d ruined everything and broken our family.

Eventually though, I did end up back at home and out of the care system. Back with my family. And there had been a shift somewhere — something I hadn’t noticed at the time, but looking back, I realise it had happened. I felt like I was part of them all again.

Mum had a lot of support from children’s services, and we had a lot of involvement with them. All six of us would be split into pairs and placed into respite care from time to time — just to give Mum the space she needed to cope, to function at a level that could be considered acceptable.

This part of my journey deserved its own space because it marked the beginning of me becoming disconnected from myself. I wasn’t just placed in different homes; I was placed in different versions of who I thought I had to be to survive them. Each move chipped away at a sense of identity I never really had the chance to form. And though the memories are scattered, the feelings they left behind built a foundation of mistrust, abandonment, and a constant need to prove I was worth keeping. That’s why this part matters. It was the quiet, heavy middle — the space between the shock of being taken and the scars I would carry forward.

But looking back now, I can also see something else. As much as there were struggles through this time, I was also being shown glimpses of what normality looked like. What acceptable care looked like. Coming from a family filled with violence, neglect, and explosive arguments between my parents, some of those foster placements — even the imperfect ones — showed me that life didn’t always have to be chaos. They weren’t always loving in the way I craved, but they were structured. They were safe. And in their own quiet way, they planted seeds in me. Seeds of what life could be.