Two Brothers, or How Life Set Everything Right
Andrew never thought much about not having a father when he was little. His mother’s love was enough. But in secondary school, the boys started competing over whose dad had the better car or the pricier phone. Andrew stayed quiet. What could he boast about? He and his mother didn’t own a car, and his phone was ordinary. His mum worked as a doctor at the local surgery, and she didn’t have any flashy connections—just elderly patients.
One day after school, he asked his mother about his father.
*”Don’t you remember him? When you were three, he met another woman. I couldn’t forgive him for that, so we divorced, and he left. At first, he’d visit, bring you little gifts. Then he had another child…”* She sighed.
Her eyes turned sad, so Andrew decided not to ask again. Why bother? If his father didn’t want him, then he didn’t need a father like that. Besides, he had the best mother—young, pretty, and well-liked. She was someone to be proud of.
Then a man came into her life. She often went out in the evenings—birthdays with friends, visiting someone, or tending to difficult patients. Or so she said. But Andrew wasn’t a child anymore—he understood. Patients didn’t require fancy dresses and perfume. She’d return with flowers, smiling, her eyes bright.
One evening, as she fussed in front of the mirror before a date, humming softly, Andrew asked bluntly:
*”Mum, are you seeing someone?”*
She froze, then turned to him. Her cheeks flushed, her gaze guilty.
*”I don’t know how to explain… You’ll always be the most important thing to me. But—”*
*”You don’t need to explain. I’m grown now. Is it serious? Are you going to marry him?”*
*”I’m not sure yet. Would you mind?”*
*”No. But I’m used to it being just us. If you marry him, I won’t call him Dad.”*
She smiled. *”He’s a good man. I’ve wanted you to meet him for ages, but I was nervous.”*
*”Fine. Let him come, then.”*
She hugged him, whispering how proud she was. He pressed close, breathing in her familiar scent. Part of him wanted to say he didn’t want to share her—they didn’t need anyone else. But she kept thanking him, so he stayed quiet.
That Sunday, she styled her hair differently, wore her best dress, and blushed as she set the table. She hadn’t looked this happy in years. The flat smelled of home-cooked food and her perfume. The only bitter thought was that she wasn’t doing this for him—but for a stranger.
He imagined the man tall and handsome, worthy of his mother. Instead, he arrived—a balding, overweight bloke, much older than her. Even in flats, she was taller. He shook Andrew’s hand firmly and introduced himself as William Thompson.
Over dinner, William didn’t interrogate him about school like other adults. Instead, he praised Mum’s cooking, asked about the games Andrew played, the films he liked. He listened without interrupting—just nodding, asking the odd question.
Two weeks later, William moved in. His divorce had left him with a single room in a shared house—something Andrew hadn’t even known still existed. Seeing a razor and toothbrush in the bathroom made it real: this man was staying.
At night, Andrew buried his head under the pillow to block out the whispers and muffled laughter from his mother’s room.
When he was in Year 10, Mum—blushing like a schoolgirl—announced she was expecting. Andrew wasn’t happy. He’d be the older brother, less loved. He didn’t argue, only muttered that he’d prefer a brother. But really, he blamed William.
*”You’re jealous?”* William tried once. *”Your mum wanted this. She’s still young, and you’re grown…”*
Why should Andrew have to understand? No one had asked him.
The birth was difficult. The next day, William came to his room, grim-faced.
*”You have a brother,”* he said.
*”You don’t look happy.”*
*”He’s not entirely healthy. They suspect cerebral palsy. It affects movement—we don’t know how badly yet. Your mum… she doesn’t want to believe it.”*
*”You can’t just leave him at the hospital?”*
William exhaled. *”She’d never do that.”*
Benedict—Ben for short—was restless, only sleeping in Mum’s arms. Andrew dragged himself to school exhausted, resenting her. They’d been fine—why did she need another child?
Money grew tight. William worked extra hours, sold his room. The flat felt smaller.
Andrew decided to leave for university after sixth form. When he told them, Mum barely reacted—too wrapped up in Ben. William promised financial help. At the station, he hugged Andrew like a father. Suddenly, Andrew’s eyes stung. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
He left without regret. No one needed him. Calls came from William—never Mum. He’d pass on greetings, update him on Ben’s progress. Andrew barely listened, cutting conversations short.
Then, just before New Year’s, Mum called in tears. William was dead—a heart attack.
At the funeral, she aged years before his eyes. *”How will I manage alone?”* she wept.
He pitied her—and didn’t. She’d chosen this.
Ben smiled at him, held up drawings. He walked with braces. Andrew helped with arrangements, then left early, blaming exams.
Without William’s support, he struggled—often hungry, angrier at Mum. He got a summer job, didn’t visit.
At university, he married. He didn’t invite Mum, lying to his in-laws that she was grieving. He never mentioned Ben.
Afterwards, he rang her. *”We just signed the papers,”* he lied. He promised to visit. He never did.
Years passed. Rare calls. Mum never complained. Ben, she said, had learned to code—was earning.
Because of Ben, Andrew refused kids. His wife didn’t mind. They bought a BMW, a bigger flat, holidays abroad. His old life stayed buried.
Then—Mum’s number, but Ben’s voice.
*”It’s me. Mum’s gone. Funeral’s Wednesday.”*
*”How? She wasn’t old!”*
*”Cancer. Twelve o’clock. If you can come.”*
He went alone, ashamed.
Ben opened the door—a handsome seventeen-year-old, if you ignored the leg braces.
*”You’re here,”* Ben said, pulling him into a hug.
The flat was refurbished, new furniture.
*”I do alright for myself,”* Ben said, catching his look.
*”That computer you sent—top spec. Couldn’t afford it myself.”*
Andrew frowned. He hadn’t sent anything. Mum’s doing—but where’d she get the money?
At the funeral, he promised to return in nine days. He never made it.
Rain slashed the windscreen. He swerved—woke in hospital, legs numb.
*”Spinal injury,”* the doctor said. *”Recovery’s possible—with time, rehab, belief.”*
Andrew didn’t believe. His wife visited twice, then vanished.
One night, he dragged himself toward the window. A nurse caught him.
At discharge, the doctor asked about family.
*”Mum and stepdad are dead. Wife’s gone,”* Andrew said flatly.
Then downstairs—Ben, with a smiling young woman. His fiancée.
They took him home. Ben had researched German clinics—sent his scans. *”They’ve had success with cases like yours,”* he said.
*”How can you afford this?”*
*”I earn well. Besides—you’ll walk again.”*
*”And you? Why not fix yourself?”*
Ben grinned. *”This won’t help me. But you? It’s real.”*
A month later, Andrew had the op. Sensation returned. Ben hired physios, worked overtime to pay.
The first time Andrew stood on crutches, he wept.
*”I’m sorry. I was ashamed of you. Blamed Mum. But you… you saved me.”*
Ben hugged him. *”No scores between brothers. You’re walking—that’s what matters. Soon, no crutches. You’ll dance at our wedding!”*
Shame burned through Andrew. He could’ve helped them. Instead, he’d cut them off.
But life had rearranged everything—switched their places.
Now, he’d have to learn to walk again—and to forgive himself.
