When Boundaries Get Quiet

He approached me like nothing had happened.
Like I’d placate him. Like I’d smooth it over — especially with the mums standing around.
Maybe he thought I’d be too polite to say anything real.

But I wasn’t.

I said it simply:
“Mate, I’m quite annoyed with you, to be honest.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it landed.

He replied with something deflective — “Shouldn’t have fobbed me off then.”
And I just looked at him and said,
“I really don’t want to talk about it, to be honest, mate. Now’s not the place.”

And that was it. I didn’t add anything. I didn’t over-explain.
Because the truth is — I don’t want to talk about it with him. Not now. Not ever.
He knows he had a few too many bevvies. He knows he didn’t show up the way he should have.
Explaining it wouldn’t change anything. It would only open a door I’ve already closed.

Understandably, my stress spiked. I could feel it — 100%.
But I didn’t let it control me.
And I didn’t suppress it either.

The anger was there, hot and real, but I held it calmly.
It was obvious that I was pissed off — but it didn’t need volume. It didn’t need a scene.
It just was. And that was enough.

What surprised me most was how clear I felt — even in an environment where I might’ve once folded.
Even with the loud music. Even with the social pressure.

I ended up sitting in my car. Not avoiding. Just choosing peace.
And as I sat there, I realised I felt something solid inside me.
Like I’d met myself in that moment. Like I’d proven to the younger version of me that I don’t shrink anymore.

And maybe — just maybe — the women picked up on it too.
They didn’t flinch. They didn’t pull away.
They kept me in the conversation, steady and warm, like they knew something had shifted.
Like they saw me holding a line I used to let go of.

Whether they meant to regulate me or not, it felt like something kind.
Like a quiet “We see you, Alex.”

And maybe the biggest turning point of all —
I didn’t realise how powerful I’ve become.
Not in an intimidating way. Not in force.
But in presence. In clarity. In not backing down.

He was all up in my space — but I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t need to raise my voice. I didn’t need to defend myself.
He knew. I knew.
And for once, that was enough.

It was the kind of moment where I saw myself emerge — calm, strong, and fully here.
Not the little boy anymore.
Just… me.

And maybe that’s why this felt different — because it was fully aligned.
There was no internal conflict, no questioning.
This wasn’t just about me.
It was about my son. And when someone lets him down, I don’t hesitate.
I don’t shrink. I don’t second-guess.

Sometimes it’s hard to stand up for myself.
But when it comes to protecting Vic, I’m rooted in something deeper —
a grounded, masculine presence that’s undeniable.

And I’m embracing that now.
Not as a mask, not as a defence — but as a truth I can finally live from.