Uncle Michael was a funny man. Clumsy as a bear cub, short and plump with curly hair. His eyes were small, blue like boiled sweets, behind round glasses. His face always had a childlike expression—cheerful and guileless.
Oliver had always feared men. At six, he flinched at deep voices and laughter. If someone offered him a handshake, he’d instantly hide behind his mum.
“Emily! What’s with this timid little protector of yours?” adults would tease.
Oliver wasn’t timid. He’d once stood up to three older boys who snatched his neighbour Lucy’s football. He shielded her and said firmly, “Leave her alone. She’s a girl. You’ll deal with me!” And they walked away.
“Look at this brave little squirt,” one muttered.
Lucy took his hand afterward. “Let’s be friends!”
When a kitten got stuck in a tree, Oliver climbed up alone—until his mum spotted him from the window and called the neighbours. They rescued both boy and cat. They took the kitten home and named her Daisy.
At nursery, Oliver was the bravest, brightest. Teachers held him up as an example. Yet he still feared men.
It started at two. His father, tall and handsome—raven-haired, dark-eyed, strong—would shout and raise his hand at Mum. People turned to watch him walk down the street. Daniel was the picture of a perfect man—in looks, not soul. Oliver couldn’t recall a single hug, a comforting word.
“Stop snivelling! Boys don’t cry. No bedtime stories. And take that teddy out—you’re not a girl!” Such words were all Oliver heard from the man he adored.
Years later, he learned he’d been unwanted. His grandparents had forced the marriage.
“He loves you, Ollie. He just… doesn’t know how to show it,” Mum would say, smoothing his hair.
Time passed. Nothing changed.
“I should’ve waited till I wanted a kid! Now we’re stuck with this snivelling weakling,” Dad would yell.
He despised everything about Oliver. Eventually, Dad left. “I’ll send money. But I don’t want to see him. Maybe someday.”
Mum was lovely—long honey-blonde hair, wide-eyed. To Oliver, she was a mermaid. She worked hard.
Then one day, she brought home Uncle Michael, her boss, who’d offered her a lift.
“Hello, little man. I’m Uncle Michael. Brought you some treats—cake, a model plane. Your mum said you like those. And this stuffed rabbit. Look how soft!”
His voice was gentle. He hovered awkwardly at the door. Oliver stayed silent, afraid.
“It’s alright, Emily. I’ll go,” Uncle Michael said, setting the parcels down.
As he turned, shuffling like that bear cub, Oliver suddenly smiled. “Don’t go!”
Uncle Michael lifted him. He smelled of aftershave and home.
“What a handsome lad! Oh, Emily, look at him!”
From then on, Uncle Michael visited often. He’d sit on the floor in his suit, playing with Oliver. He read to him, cooked when Mum was tired—proper meals: roasts, pies, soups.
“Why d’you cook, Uncle Michael?” Oliver once asked.
“Love it, Ollie. Gre up in a big family—had to feed everyone. Plus, it’s fun! Your mum works hard; let her rest.”
“But you work too.”
“Ah, I’m tough. Wait till summer—we’ll go to my cottage. There’s a frog in the well. We’ll pick flowers for Mum.”
Oliver clung to him, praying he’d never leave.
A month later, they ran into Dad—drunk, with a woman.
“Who’s this? Couldn’t do better than this lump, Em?” Dad sneered. His companion laughed.
“Dad, this is Uncle Michael. Don’t be mean!”
“What? Speaking up now, are we?” Dad grabbed Uncle Michael’s collar.
“Stop! Please!” Oliver screamed, clutching Dad’s leg.
After that, Dad’s parents took Oliver more often, berating Mum and Uncle Michael. “Daniel’s his father. This one’s nothing.”
Oliver tried to talk to Uncle Michael.
“They’re right, son. He’s your dad. You should love him. Maybe if I weren’t here…”
“No! Don’t leave!”
Oliver grew. Home was peaceful. Uncle Michael worked, gardened, taught him woodwork. Let him “steer” the car on his lap. Neighbours whispered:
“Handsome boy! Shame about the father—plain as porridge.”
“Not even his. Real dad’s a looker. What was Emily thinking?”
“That’s not true! Uncle Michael’s the best!” Oliver shouted.
Uncle Michael never argued. “No use fussing over truth.”
Mum’s parents disapproved too. “Daniel’s a proper man. And she picks this frumpy little busybody?”
Years later, walking with Lucy, Oliver confessed, “I love him more than Dad. But the family won’t forgive me.”
“Then forgive them. Uncle Michael’s lovely.”
When Oliver graduated—dreaming of becoming a naval captain—a telegram arrived: Uncle Michael was ill.
He raced home, strong and grown, but sobbed in the train corridor. “Just stay alive. Please.”
Quiet, unassuming Uncle Michael had filled their lives with love. Now, in the hospital, Oliver barely recognised him—thin, frail.
A bony hand rose. Those familiar eyes, full of light, met his. Oliver fell to his knees.
“Dad… Dad, please! I need you! I’ll take you sailing, like I promised!”
Uncle Michael had always said Oliver had one father. But his face lit up—he’d waited.
“Make peace with your dad, Ollie. He’s still family. And look after Mum—she’s fragile. You two were my stars. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”
“No—thank you!” Oliver wept.
He reconciled with Dad, who marvelled at his son, apologised endlessly.
“I’ll visit, Dad. We’ll catch up.”
Now, returning from sea, Oliver brings daisies to where Uncle Michael rests. He watches the clouds, remembers the cottage, the frog. Holds the lantern they built together.
“You told me to light it, so you’d find me. I did, Dad. Come home.”
The evening sky stays silent. But Oliver waits.
