Chapter 8. 30s part 3. The Holiday He Hijacked. By MissT

30’s (part 3)

This was supposed to be a break. A breather from the chaos, a chance to just be—me and my girls, soaking up sunshine and safety. But what do you do when the past flies out to meet you? When the person you escaped decides you don’t get to walk away?

This is the story of a holiday gone wrong, a woman finding her voice in the middle of madness, and the terrifying lengths someone will go to when they can’t let go.

So, there he was outside the café—smug, like the cat that got the cream. I knew my mother had told him where I was staying. There was no other way he could’ve known.

I sat beside him and tried to explain that we weren’t together anymore. That he shouldn’t have flown out like that. This was my holiday with the girls, and he wasn’t welcome.

He just smiled and said, “There’s only you, darling. You’re the only girl for me.”

I got up, gathered the girls’ things, and went back to our room. I didn’t dare leave it that evening. I felt trapped.

J came around later, and I told him what had happened—that my ex had shown up, and it was best if he stayed away. I didn’t want trouble. We’d had such a good first week. But he was annoyed—and rightly so. We’d paid all this money, and now we were stuck inside.

The next morning, just the girls and I went to breakfast. They helped themselves to cereal, and I had toast and coffee. But I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.

And there he was—sitting in the corner of the breakfast room with that same stupid grin.

My stomach turned. How did I ever love someone who scares me this much? And how was I supposed to keep smiling for the girls while my past loomed in the corner?

I got up quickly, but he followed. He tried to block my exit, so I ran the other way. He was faster. Emma started crying. One of the dads we’d befriended stood up and told him to back off. I seized the moment, grabbed the girls, and ran.

We were shaken. I was furious—at my mum for telling him, and at him for showing up.

I told the girls to lock the door behind me and went straight to reception. The woman at the desk looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “My psycho ex is here. He’s chasing us around the hotel.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but… he said he was surprising his wife. He asked to book the room next door.”

My heart dropped.

I was livid. But I wasn’t going to let him ruin our holiday. We hired a car and spent the day touring the island—Timanfaya’s volcanic landscape, sun-drenched beaches, dusty market stalls, and silent back roads where it felt like the world had finally left us alone.

The girls were tired, showered, and put to bed. I followed suit.

In the early hours, I was awoken by a soft tap on the door. It was J.

Before I could speak, he was in the room. His hands met mine, sparks flew, tension melted. But I knew there’d be a price to pay if SH found out.

We fell asleep. Then—a scream.

Emma.

I ran into the girls’ room. Emma was pointing, wide-eyed, at the patio door—left ajar. Curtains flapped in the night breeze. My heart thundered.

We were two stories up.

I ran to the balcony—and froze.

A shadowed figure perched on the adjoining wall, one leg already over. His face lit by the moonlight. SH. Eyes wide, unblinking, locked on the room like prey. His hands gripped the edge with quiet menace.

I screamed and slammed the patio door, locking it with shaking hands. Emma sobbed behind me.

In that second, I wasn’t just scared—I was back in every moment he made me feel powerless. But this time, I had two terrified daughters watching. And I wasn’t going to let him see me break.

He had already been in their room.

Watching.

Listening.

I felt sick.

J left not long after. Somehow, we got back to sleep.

The next morning: another tap. I thought it was J.

It was SH.

He barged in, shouting.

“You slag! I flew to Lanzarote to fix things, and you’re here with some boy!”

The girls woke to the shouting. He stormed onto the balcony.

“I’m going to tell everyone you pushed me! You’ll be done for attempted murder!”

Then—he threw himself off.

We ran to the door. He was curled in pain by the pool, screeching. Then limped off.

Complete disbelief filled every part of me. What was my mother thinking?

Reception told me he’d been moved to another room under staff instruction. Guests had complained—he’d been drunk, aggressive, even started a fight with the barman.

And yes, I can hear it now: “He loved you, Tracey. He followed you there.”
But no. It was over three weeks before I even flew out. My mother knew that.

Who needs enemies with a family like mine?

He was a fruit loop—and that’s putting it kindly.

The rest of the holiday was tense, but we escaped to another resort. J came too. He left for Birmingham before us. I said goodbye, convinced I’d never see him again.

How wrong I was.

That trip to Lanzarote should have been simple—a bit of sunshine, a slice of peace. But it became something darker. A place where the shadows from home followed me, where the lines between fear and love blurred dangerously, and where I learned just how far someone would go to hold on when they should have let go.

But I also learned something else:
That no matter how frightened I was, I would always find a way to protect my girls, and crawl back toward the light. Even in the middle of madness, I chose to survive.

And that—that—was power.

Turns out I attract nuts.
Shame I’m not in the business of collecting them.