**An Extra Mouth**
The kitchen table was suddenly a tight squeeze. The modest five-metre space, once cosy for two adults and three kids, now felt like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
“Connor, grab that stool from the living room,” Mum said.
Seventeen-year-old Connor rolled his eyes but obeyed, returning with the stool in tow.
“There. We’ll just shift the table a bit. Squeeze in, Max, love. It’s fine,” Mum said, avoiding a glance at the five-year-old who’d caused this sudden reshuffling. Instead, she turned to Dad, whose expression made it clear he was *not* thrilled about the impromptu furniture ballet.
Lena served Dad first—a steaming bowl of beef stew. She sliced bread, buttered a few pieces, handed Sophie a clove of garlic to peel, and within minutes, plates appeared like magic. Connor, mimicking Dad, layered a thin slice of buttered bread, took a bite, then chased it with a spoonful of stew. The garlic cloves vanished in seconds, leaving the dish empty.
Max clutched his spoon but didn’t eat. He just watched the two men opposite him, longing to copy them—but the plates were too far to reach.
“Eat,” ten-year-old Sophie nudged him, sliding him a slice of bread with butter.
Max grabbed it like it was cake, chewing with such enthusiasm it might as well have been. Lena smiled and finally picked up her own spoon.
Dad refused seconds. Connor silently nodded. Sophie asked for salt to sprinkle on her bread. Tea was drunk in silence, everyone staring into their mugs. Biscuits and tea cakes disappeared fast—no one lingered.
When dinner ended, Arthur stood first. “Kids eat first next time, then us. This table’s too small as it is.”
Lena froze, plate in hand, but said nothing. Connor shot a glare at Max, still munching a biscuit.
The night before, Dad hadn’t come home alone. He’d nudged a small boy through the door.
“Come in, Max,” Lena had said, holding a towel as if he’d just stepped out of the bath.
It was obvious they’d planned this—Max’s arrival was no surprise to them.
“Who’s *this*?” Connor had demanded, barging into the hallway with a textbook in hand.
“This is Max,” Mum said with forced cheer.
“Yeah, got that. *Who is he*?”
Arthur and Lena hesitated. They *should’ve* told the kids sooner. But they hadn’t.
“Max is staying with us. We’ll fit a fold-out chair in your room.”
“*Our* room?” Sophie had burst in, aghast.
Their shared space was already divided by a wardrobe. Squeezing in another piece of furniture meant chaos. But Dad’s authority wasn’t up for debate. A single glance, and the protests died.
Seven years earlier, Dad had left. Mum had wailed, clutching at him, begging him not to go. But Arthur had packed a single bag and walked out. He’d fallen for a woman at the factory—Antonia. The kids hadn’t been enough to keep him.
Two years later, he’d returned with the same bag. No apologies. Just:
“If you filed for divorce, I’ll leave. It’s over otherwise.”
Lena hadn’t answered. She’d waited for this moment—ached for it. Now that it was here, she couldn’t speak. She’d already forgiven him. She just wanted to *see* him.
It took a year of awkward cohabitation before Arthur apologised properly. Things settled, not quite the same, but close.
Then came Max.
Antonia hadn’t died. She just didn’t want a kid—never had. She’d only had Max because the factory gave her a room for it.
“Take him or I’m sending him to a children’s home,” she’d told Arthur when he came to visit.
“Where am I supposed to put him? There’s four of us in a two-bed already!”
“Dunno. Didn’t ask me when you made him, did you?”
“I thought you *wanted* Max.”
She’d laughed. “Think again. You’ve got till the end of the month. First of next month, I’m dropping him off if you don’t take him.”
She’d been bluffing—she knew Arthur wouldn’t let it happen.
Lena had agreed instantly. She never treated Max differently, never sorted the kids into “hers” and “his.” She loved them all the same.
Time passed. A bigger kitchen table arrived. Sophie got a corner of the living room sectioned off, freeing space for the boys. Connor went off to uni. Max started school.
But Connor’s resentment festered. Even sharing a father didn’t matter. He mocked Max, sneered at him when their parents weren’t looking. Sophie adored Max—he was more like her than Connor ever was.
And then came the nickname.
“*Extra Mouth*.”
Connor said it with a sneer, like Max was a burden. He set the boy up, got him in trouble for things he hadn’t done.
One evening, Lena reheated leftover cottage pies.
“Who took the extra one?” she asked.
“Max swiped it at lunch. Sophie saw,” Connor lied smoothly.
Sophie nodded—she *had* seen Max eating earlier.
“Yeah, I had one,” Max admitted.
“Just one? I told you all to save one for dinner.”
“Just one. *Connor* took the other. He’s lying, like last time.”
Lena didn’t even look at Connor. She slid her plate to Max.
“Read somewhere that an extra mouth is worse than a gun. True, Mum?”
Dad’s fist hit the table. He stood, yanked Connor’s plate away, and held it for a long, silent moment, staring him down.
Then he gave it to Lena.
“The *only* extra mouth here is *you*,” Dad said, voice low. “You’re twenty. Still living off us. If you’re hungry, get a job. *Now.*”
Max stared at his plate, tears dripping onto his pie.
“Don’t salt it any more, or no one’ll want it,” Lena said softly.
“I can’t eat it…”
“You *will*. It’s yours. Take what’s yours in life—be grateful for it. Especially food. A man needs to eat to work and think.”
***
By the end of the school year, Max walked home alone.
One day, Connor passed his school early. He spotted Max instantly—four older boys tossing a backpack while Max scrambled between them, arms outstretched. A girl stood nearby, face hidden in her hands.
Connor sneered, walked past—then stopped. Max was on the ground now, getting kicked.
Connor sprinted over, grabbed two boys by the collars, lifting them clean off their feet.
“Four on one? Real brave.” He ignored Max, afraid of what he’d see. “This is *my* brother. Lay a finger on him again, and I’ll wring you out like a dishrag.”
The bullies bolted.
Connor crouched. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Max muttered.
“Face?”
“Covered it. It’s *her* bag.”
Connor glanced at the girl.
“Friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you step in? They’re twice your size.”
“You stick up for any girl. Doesn’t matter if she’s five or twenty-five.”
Connor snorted. Dad had said that.
“Right. Come on. Mum’s gonna kill you—look at your uniform.”
They walked home in silence. Connor kept stealing glances at Max, who wiped his nose, then dusted off his jumper.
“What you said back there…” Max stopped.
“What?”
“You called me your brother. You always say ‘Extra Mouth.’”
Connor looked away. “*Are* you my brother?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s that.” He held out a hand. “Friends?”
Max spat on his palm before shaking.
Connor laughed but didn’t wipe his hand.
“Help me with maths? Promised Lena I’d get top marks.”
“Struggling?”
“A bit,” Max admitted.
“I’ll sort you out.”
True to his word, Max aced his exams the next year, under Connor’s watch.
Connor moved out—sort of. Balancing work and studies was harder than he’d thought. But he paid his share, never skipped.
And he never called Max “Extra Mouth” again.
One lesson from Dad had been enough.
