James Robert Smith · TAS
**The Narcissist in Work Boots**
Mark was a sparky, a proper tradie who’d been pulling wires and climbing ladders for fifteen years straight. Most nights he got home after six, boots heavy with concrete dust, hi-vis shirt smelling like sweat and burnt plastic. He was the kind of bloke who said yes to every overtime shift because the mortgage on their little fibro place in Ipswich wasn’t gonna pay itself.
Tracey worked part-time at the school canteen. She was tired too, but in a different way. Lately everything Mark did was proof he only cared about himself.
It started small but got loud fast.
“Kids, your father’s a bloody narcissist,” she’d say at the dinner table while Mark was still chewing. “Can’t even remember to pick up milk on the way home. Too busy thinking about himself.”
Their boy Josh, ten, would stare at his sausages. Little Sophie, eight, would look between them like she was waiting for the fight to start.
Mark wasn’t perfect. He forgot things. He’d say he’d fix the leaky tap and then fall asleep in the recliner at 8:30 because he’d done a twelve-hour day. He hated arguments, so he’d go quiet, which only made Tracey angrier.
One Tuesday he walked in late again, carrying his esky.
“Jesus Christ, Mark. Look at you. Narcissist much?” Tracey said loud enough for the whole street. “You promised the kids you’d take them to the park after school. But nah, you’re too important, aren’t ya?”
“I had to finish that job in Goodna, love. The boss—”
“Don’t ‘love’ me. You’re a textbook narcissist. Everything’s always about you and your bloody work.”
Josh muttered, “Mum, stop…”
But she didn’t. “See? Even the kids can see it. You make everything about Mark.”
Mark stood there in the kitchen, still holding his dusty boots in one hand. His shoulders slumped. He looked at his kids’ faces and felt something heavy settle in his chest. That night he slept on the couch.
It kept going. Every forgotten bin night, every time he came home too wrecked to play Xbox with Josh, every time he didn’t want to talk about his feelings — “Narcissist.” Said right in front of the children like it was his official title.
Mark started getting worse. He’d double-check everything, triple-check, then still forget something because his head was so full of noise. He began waking up at 3am with his heart racing, scared he’d stuff up again. Scared the kids would grow up believing he was some selfish prick who didn’t love them.
Tracey was spiralling too. She’d started reading TikToks and Facebook groups about narcissistic abuse. Every normal husband flaw now had a clinical label. The more she said it, the more she believed it, and the angrier she got when Mark didn’t “take accountability.”
The kids copped it worst.
Josh started getting in trouble at school for snapping at teachers. When his mum asked why, he shrugged and said, “Dad’s a narcissist anyway. What’s the point.” He’d heard it so many times it felt like family fact.
Sophie began having nightmares and started sucking her thumb again at eight years old. She’d cry if Mum and Dad were in the same room.
One Sunday arvo it blew up properly. Mark had forgotten to book the rego on the Commodore. Tracey lost it in front of both kids.
“You absolute narcissist! You don’t give a shit about this family! We’re all just props in your little world!”
Mark finally cracked. Not loud. Just tired.
“Tracey… I’m not a narcissist. I’m just buggered, mate. I’m trying.”
But the damage was done. The word had been said too many times. The kids had heard it hundreds of times.
Six months later Mark moved into a shitty little unit in Brassall. He still worked his arse off, still paid the mortgage and child support, but the spark had gone out of him. He second-guessed every decision, every text to the kids. He was terrified they’d grow up thinking their dad was some monster.
Tracey posted on Facebook about “leaving a narcissist” and got heaps of likes. But at night she stared at the ceiling wondering why she fel