From the moment Uncle Tom stepped into the house, Tim disliked him—no, more than that, he loathed him.
Mum, nervously twisting her fingers, had said to her eight-year-old son that evening:
“Tim, meet Uncle Tom. We work together, and now we’ve decided to live together.”
Tim frowned, baffled. What did that mean? Was this stranger really going to live here with them?
“What about Dad?” Tim shot a glare at Mum before side-eyeing Uncle Tom, who stood by the door.
“Tim, don’t start!” Mum grew even more flustered, raising her voice.
“Dad’s coming back! He *is*! We don’t need you!” Tim shouted at the unfamiliar man before hot tears sprang to his eyes. He bolted to his room.
“Tim, love. How many times must I tell you? Your dad left us. He left me, and he left you. He’s not coming back. Not ever. But Uncle Tom—he’s good. You’ll see. He’ll take care of us, and you’ll get on.” Mum sat beside Tim, who had flung himself onto the bed. She stroked his hair, his shoulders, spoke softly, but Tim only pressed his face into the wall. He didn’t believe her, didn’t want to listen. Dad had gone away before, for long stretches, driving his big lorry, but he always came back. Laughing, with presents for Tim and Mum. From the garden gate, he’d yell, “Oi, who’s this then? Look who’s home!” and Tim would sprint into his arms. “Dad! Dad! What’d you bring me?” The last time Dad left, he and Mum had talked for ages in the kitchen. Mum sniffled; Dad kept saying, “Marian, don’t make a scene. You knew I had another family. I’ve got to think of them.” Tim had been six. He didn’t understand—why was Mum crying? Dad was talking about *their* family, wasn’t he? There couldn’t possibly be another one. Tim had fallen asleep, and by morning, Dad was gone. “When’s he coming back?” he’d asked Mum, who spent the day sighing and staring into space. He hadn’t believed her when she explained Dad wasn’t ever returning—that he had another wife, other kids, and they weren’t needed anymore. Tim had raged, sobbed, screamed that she was lying, that Dad loved him and *would* come back. He’d waited, and waited—nothing. Mum shushed him if he asked about Dad. And now here was Uncle Tom, in their house.
Mum left. From the kitchen, Uncle Tom said,
“Marian, you should’ve prepared him.”
“He’ll adjust. It’ll sort itself out,” Mum said firmly.
At breakfast the next morning, Uncle Tom sat with them. He praised the bacon and eggs like they were something spectacular. Mum smiled, pouring him more tea.
“Tim, want me to drive you to school? Let you have a go at the wheel?” Uncle Tom offered.
“I’ll walk,” Tim muttered. Dad used to let him sit in the cab of his lorry, though it was never running. Still, Tim loved gripping the wheel, flicking switches, pretending he was driving beyond the horizon. He wanted nothing from Uncle Tom. Mum didn’t scold him for being rude, and Uncle Tom didn’t push. Tim had walked to school alone for ages—Mum worked at the factory in the nearest town, always rushing for the bus, shouting from the door, “Tim, up! Breakfast’s on the table!” They only ate together on weekends. Despite his anger, Tim was curious—what kind of car did Uncle Tom drive? Probably some clunker like Old Man Barry’s, which coughed to life once a month for the market. But no—Uncle Tom’s car was sleek, silver. He and Mum climbed in, heading toward town, Mum waving, Uncle Tom honking. Tim didn’t wave back. He scowled and stomped the other way. Two streets over, his best mate Dave was waiting on a bench.
“Tough break. He’ll start laying down the law now,” Dave said, scratching his head—a reflex when remembering his own stepdad. Dave’s mum’s bloke had lived with them four years. He drank too much, shouted, doled out smacks for no reason. Dave’s mum never stepped in—she drank with him, reckoned a man knew best how to raise another. Tim imagined Uncle Tom being the same and darkened further. His mum didn’t drink, was always kind—only went quiet when Tim mentioned Dad.
But Tim’s fears were misplaced. Uncle Tom didn’t drink. After work and on weekends, he whistled, fixing things, building. He always asked Tim to help, but Tim grumbled, “No thanks,” and slunk off, only to spy later as Uncle Tom worked steadily. The house and garden slowly transformed under his hands. Mum began laughing more. Tim, though, sulked, hiding tools and nails, waiting for Uncle Tom to snap. But he never did. Just chuckled and said, “Gremlins about, eh?” winking before finding what he needed elsewhere.
At dinner, Uncle Tom asked about school, homework. “Fine. I’ve got it,” Tim always mumbled. Dave’s stepdad never helped—just walloped him for bad marks. Tim was used to studying alone—Mum never had time, too busy with chores, work. Now she had more free time, but when she offered to read or watch telly together, Tim refused. Still furious she’d betrayed Dad.
That day, Tim and Dave scrapped with some Year Six lads—over nothing, really. They’d made up quick, but Tim got a shiner.
“Tim, want to talk about it?” Uncle Tom asked, serious for once.
“Don’t need you.” Tim shoved his plate away and stormed off.
“Boys fight—it happens,” Mum said.
“One-on-one, fine. But what if he’s being bullied?” Uncle Tom mused. “Things are hard enough with us. If it happens again, I’ll speak to his teacher—quietly, see if we’re missing something.”
Tim sat fuming. *Oh, a protector now! I can handle myself!* Next morning, he slipped salt into Uncle Tom’s tea—stupid, petty, but rage drove him. Uncle Tom drank it unsweetened—he’d know it was no accident. *Good. Let him know he’s not wanted.* Uncle Tom understood—just poured it out calmly. “Gone cold. No matter,” he told a puzzled Marian.
Tim kept scheming, small sabotages, but Uncle Tom never raged—just fixed what he could, shrugged off the rest.
Autumn passed, then winter. Spring arrived. One evening, Tim got home early, but Mum and Uncle Tom were late. He was fretting when headlights flashed outside—but only Uncle Tom returned.
“’Where’s Mum?” Tim asked warily.
“Don’t panic. She’s in hospital—just needs rest. We’ll manage.” Uncle Tom steered Tim to a chair.
“What’s wrong?” Tim’s chest tightened.
“Nothing bad. You’ll have a brother or sister soon. Mum has to take it easy.” They’d delayed telling Tim, seeing how he bristled at every change. But today, at work, Marian had nearly fainted. Doctors admitted her. Tim stiffened. First Uncle Tom, now a new baby? Where did *he* fit? No—he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d leave. For good.
Later, Tim stuffed a rucksack, slipped out at dusk. He marched down darkened lanes, thinking, *Mum’s return and I’ll be gone—then she’ll regret bringing Uncle Tom here.* But as distance grew, other thoughts crept in. Uncle Tom wasn’t bad. Fixed up the house, took him fishing, let him help with the car (though Tim knew nothing). Bought him a remote-control helicopter for Christmas—Mum would’ve never splurged like that. And she smiled more now. And Dad… three years, not a word. Even before, visits were rare—just a hug at the door, some cheap toy, never asking how Tim was. Ate, sometimes drank, laughed while Mum cooked. Once, when she mentioned a broken shelf, he’d shrugged. “That’s life.” Never fixed it. Mum hammered nails in herself—it hung crooked till Uncle Tom sorted it. Tim slowed, lost in thought. Stopped.
Something crunched underfoot.
Only then did Tim realise—instead of the bridge, he’d gone straight onto the frozen river. Folks crossed here in winter, but spring had thawed the ice. His pulse spiked. He turned carefully—another crack.
Uncle Tom peeked into Tim’s room before bed. The lad was prickly enough—now this news? Tim wasn’t there. Nor was his rucksack. Clothes were strewn by the wardrobe. *Oh, he’s bolted.* Uncle Tom grabbed his coat, sped off. Checked Dave’s first—no luck. The woods nearby weren’t big, but anything could happenUncle Tom spotted Tim just as the ice gave way, lunging forward to pull him to safety, and as Tim clung to him, shaking and drenched, he finally whispered, “Thanks, Dad,” and in that moment, the last of the boy’s icy resistance melted away, just like the river behind them.
