Tom hated Uncle Jack right from the start—actually, no, he downright loathed him.
That evening, Mum, nervously twisting her fingers, said to her eight-year-old son,
“Tom, this is Uncle Jack. We work together, and now we’ve decided to live together too.”
Tom scowled, not understanding. What did that mean—this strange bloke was going to live with them now?
“What about Dad?” Tom shot Mum a glare and then side-eyed Uncle Jack, who was leaning in the doorway.
“Tom, don’t start!” Mum got even more flustered and raised her voice.
“He’ll come back! He will! We don’t need you!” Tom shouted at the unfamiliar man. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he bolted to his room.
“Tom, love. How many times do I have to tell you—your dad left us. Left me, left you. He’s not coming back. Never.” Mum sat beside him on the bed as he buried his face in the pillow. “Uncle Jack’s good, you’ll see. He’ll take care of us. You’ll be friends.” She stroked his hair, speaking softly, but Tom wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t believe her. Dad had always gone away for long stretches, driving his big lorry, but he always came home—laughing, with presents for Tom and Mum. He’d shout from the gate, “Oi, come see who’s back!” and Tom would run, arms wide. “Dad! Dad! What’d you bring me?”
Before Dad left that last time, he and Mum had talked for ages in the kitchen. Mum had been crying, and Dad kept saying, “Emma, don’t make a scene. You knew I had another family. I’ve got to think of them.” Tom was only six, so he didn’t get it. Why was Mum crying? Dad was talking about them, their family—him and Mum. How could there even be another family? Tom had fallen asleep, and when he woke, Dad was gone. “When’s he coming back?” he’d asked Mum, who was quiet and sighing all morning.
Tom didn’t believe her when she explained Dad wasn’t coming back—that he had another wife, other kids, and didn’t need them anymore. He’d been furious, screaming that she was lying, that Dad loved him and would come home. He’d waited so long. And now… Uncle Jack was here.
Mum left. Tom heard Uncle Jack say in the kitchen,
“Emma, you should’ve prepared him somehow.”
“He’ll get used to it. It’ll sort itself out,” Mum cut in.
At breakfast the next morning, Uncle Jack was there, raving about the fry-up as if Mum had cooked something special. She smiled, pouring him more tea.
“Tom, want a lift to school? You can steer a bit if you like,” Uncle Jack offered.
“I’ll walk,” Tom muttered. Dad used to let him sit in the lorry’s cab—engine off, going nowhere, but Tom loved pretending to drive, messing with the knobs and levers, imagining he was off somewhere far. He didn’t want anything from Uncle Jack.
Uncle Jack didn’t push it, and Mum didn’t scold Tom for being rude. They only had breakfast together on weekends anyway—Mum worked at the factory in the next town over and was always rushing out, yelling from the door, “Tom! Breakfast’s on the table!”
Still, curiosity got the better of him—what kind of car did Uncle Jack have? Probably some clunker like Old George’s down the road, the one he only started once a month for the market. But no—Uncle Jack’s was sleek and silver. Mum waved as they drove off toward town, and Uncle Jack beeped the horn. Tom didn’t wave back. He scowled and stomped the other way.
His best mate, Ben, was waiting on the bench near the bus stop.
“Rough luck, mate. Now he’ll start playing dad,” Ben said, scratching the back of his neck—a reflex whenever he talked about his stepdad, Greg. The bloke had been around four years, drank too much, and shoved Ben around for no reason. Ben’s mum never stepped in—she drank with him, saying men knew best how to raise boys. Tom imagined Uncle Jack might be the same and went even gloomier.
But he was wrong. Uncle Jack didn’t drink. He was always whistling, fixing things, building stuff. He’d ask Tom to help, but Tom would grumble,
“Not bothered,” and walk off—only to peek later as Uncle Jack worked, everything smooth and quick in his hands. The house and yard slowly got better. Mum laughed more now, happier.
Tom still sulked. He hid tools, nails—anything—just to see Uncle Jack lose his temper. But he never did. He’d just grin and say, “Gremlins about, eh? Must’ve moved my things,” wink at Tom, and find what he needed somewhere else.
At dinner, Uncle Jack would ask about school, offer help with homework.
“It’s fine. I can do it,” Tom always muttered. Ben got thumped for bad grades—his stepdad never helped. Tom was used to studying alone; Mum was always too busy. But now she had more free time, and when she suggested reading or telly together, Tom refused. He was still mad about Dad.
One day, Tom and Ben scrapped with some Year Six lads—stupid stuff, made up afterward—but Tom got a shiner.
“Tom, you alright? Want to talk?” Uncle Jack asked, dead serious for once.
“Don’t need anything from you,” Tom snapped, pushing his plate away and stomping off.
“Boys will be boys, I suppose,” Mum sighed.
“If it was a fair fight, fine—he’s got to learn to stand his ground. But what if he’s being picked on?” Uncle Jack said. “He’s already got enough on his plate because of us. If it happens again, I’ll have a quiet word with his teacher.”
Tom eavesdropped, thinking, *Oh, now he’s my knight in shining armour? I can handle this!* The next morning, he sneaked salt into Uncle Jack’s tea—stupid, petty, but he did it. Uncle Jack took his tea plain, so he’d know. *Good. Let him.*
But Uncle Jack just poured it out calmly. “Gone cold. No bother,” he told a puzzled Mum.
Tom kept trying, little tricks to rile him, but Uncle Jack never bit—smiled, fixed what he could, let go of what he couldn’t.
Autumn passed, then winter. One spring evening, Mum and Uncle Jack were late. Tom was worrying when headlights finally pulled up—but only Uncle Jack stepped out.
“Where’s Mum?” Tom asked warily.
“Tom, don’t panic. She’s in hospital—just needs to rest a while. We’ll manage till she’s back.” Uncle Jack sat him down.
“What’s wrong?” Tom’s stomach lurched.
“Nothing bad. You’re going to have a little brother or sister. They just want to keep an eye on her.”
Tom froze. First Uncle Jack, now a baby? Where did that leave him? No—he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d run away. Properly.
Later, he stuffed his backpack and slipped out as it got dark, stomping down the village lanes. *Let Mum come home to an empty house—see how she likes it then.* But the farther he walked, the more other thoughts crept in. Uncle Jack… wasn’t that bad. Fixed up the house, took him fishing, even bought that remote-control helicopter at Christmas. Mum couldn’t have—too expensive. And she smiled more now.
As for Dad… three years, nothing. Even before, he was barely around. Hug at the door, toss Tom some cheap toy, never asked how he was. Ate, drank, laughed in the kitchen while Mum bustled. Once, she complained about a shelf collapsing. Dad just laughed. “Sort it yourself.” She’d hammered it back crooked—till Uncle Jack fixed it.
Tom slowed, thinking. Then—*crunch* underfoot.
He’d wandered onto the frozen river bank. Fine in winter, but now, in spring? The ice groaned. His heart pounded. He turned carefully—*crack*.
Uncle Jack checked Tom’s room before bed. The boy was already rattled—then this news. But the room was empty, his school bag gone. Clothes lay crumpled by the wardrobe. *Blimey. He’s done a runner.*
Jack threw on his coat, jumped in the car. Went to Ben’s first—no Tom. He sped toward the woods, then spotted a figure out on the ice near the bridge. He slammed the brakes.
“Uncle Jack!” Tom’s cry rang out—then the ice shattered.
The water was freezing, Tom’s coat dragging him under. He clawed at the edge, gasping.
“Hold on, son. Hold on!” Uncle Jack was there, hauling him up. “YouAnd as Tom clung to him, shivering and safe at last, he realized that sometimes the family you choose is the one that stays.
