Brick by Brick

—J. J. Whelan

Harry was a bricklayer by trade. He had hands like spades and a back like scaffold— the kind of bloke you’d see with his sleeves rolled up, covered in mortar, laughing with the lads. On the outside, his family presented a picture of proper working-class respectability: a clean house, ironed shirts, and well-behaved kids.

But inside those four walls, it was chaos.

His dad drank heavily, always with a can in hand. Arguments were nightly and fierce, with his mum throwing insults as often as she received punches. It was chaos disguised as normal. Harry and his sister learned early on that what happened in their house stayed in the house—no exceptions. And Rule Two was clear: don’t cry unless you wanted to catch a backhand.

The house might have been built of solid bricks and mortar, but Harry’s childhood was constructed on shifting sands—dangerous and full of hidden cracks.

He left home as soon as he completed his apprenticeship, moving into a small flat where he could find peace and quiet—no fists, no shouting. He poured himself into work, quickly rising to the position of assistant site manager by twenty-five and becoming a full manager not long after. He was reliable, respected, and a grafter through and through.

But what no one knew—or so he thought—was that Harry had started drinking just to function. It began with a hip flask, then spirits in sports bottles, turning a nightcap into morning medicine. For twenty years, Harry walked a precarious line between stability and collapse, keeping everything stitched together with humor, hard work, and lies.

He met Fiona at a friend’s wedding. She was a bright spark—smart, stunning, and sharp as a tack. An educated woman who worked as an accountant. They got married, had three kids, bought a house, and parked two cars in the driveway. It should have been enough, but it was never enough for Harry.

The obsession with drink never left him; it became a necessity to help him function daily.

He drank in secret, believing he was clever—stashing a toothbrush in the glove box and breath spray in every drawer. But Fiona noticed the slips, the distance in his eyes, and the unpredictable moods. And the kids? They always know, even when they don’t fully understand.

Then came the promotion. Harry was being lined up for a directorship—a life-changing opportunity. But the night before the final meeting, he disappeared on a three-day bender. He woke up in a hotel room filled with remorse and shame. That was the end of his career; the company quietly let him go.

Fiona didn’t. She left with the kids, taking the house, reclaiming her peace, and regaining her power.

The divorce papers cited mental torment.

Harry was alone. No wife, no job, no kids—just a flat full of silence and old ghosts. He hit rock bottom one Tuesday night in January, standing on a bridge in Glasgow, staring into the river below and thinking the world would be better off without him.

But he didn’t jump. Instead, he went home and called the number he had stuffed in a drawer years earlier: Alcoholics Anonymous.

The first meeting was a blur. Men and women sat in a hall, laughing and joking while sipping weak tea and sharing their truths. Real truths—the kind Harry had buried deep under years of banter and ego. He nearly left, but something—perhaps shame, perhaps hope—made him stay.

That was six years ago.

Now, Harry is clean and sober, taking it one day at a time. He sponsors others, chairs meetings, and shares his story in church halls, prison cells, and hospital rooms, wherever people need to hear that it’s not too late to start over.

He writes letters to his kids, and sometimes they reply. Fiona nods when she sees him now, and that nod means everything. He shows up, listens, and owns his past—every lie, every loss, every drop.

He says:

“I built walls for a living, but the drink built one around me that nearly buried me. Now I build bridges, brick by brick.”