**Stepdad Uncle Mike**
Uncle Mike was a funny bloke. Clumsy as a teddy bear, a bit on the short side, with a round belly and curly hair. His eyes were tiny and blue, like boiled sweets, always sparkling behind his glasses. His face had this childlike grin—cheerful, a bit naïve.
Little Alfie was scared of men. He’d flinch at deep voices, at laughter. If someone stretched out a hand to shake his (at six years old, the nerve!), he’d duck behind his mum.
“Sophie! What’ve you raised here, a little coward?” the grown-ups would chuckle.
Alfie wasn’t a coward. He’d once stood between the neighbourhood lads and little Lucy when they tried nicking her football. Planted himself in front of her and said, firm as oak: “Leave her be. She’s a girl. You want trouble, deal with me.” And off they went.
“Cheeky little scrap, ain’t he?” was all they muttered.
Lucy took his hand after that. “Let’s be friends,” she said.
Or the time the kitten got stuck up the tree—Alfie climbed after it, no fear. Lucky his mum spotted him from the window and rallied the neighbours. They fetched boy and beast down. The cat moved in with them, named her Daisy.
At nursery, Alfie was the bravest, brightest little thing. The teachers held him up as an example. But men? Still terrified.
It started when he was two. His dad—tall, dark, handsome, the sort who turned heads in the street—would shout, swing at his mum. Alfie never once remembered being held, comforted, hugged.
“Stop snivelling! Boys don’t cry. Sleeping in the dark, no bedtime stories. Stuffed toys? For girls. Broke your ship? Clumsy oaf, no more toys. Go play. Shut up.” That was Alfie’s first love talking.
Later, he learned he’d been unwanted. Dad hadn’t fancied marriage, but the grandparents insisted.
“He loves you, Alfie. Just takes time. That’s how he is,” Mum would say, smoothing his hair.
Time passed. Nothing changed.
“Should’ve waited till I wanted a kid. Now we’re stuck with this snivelling wreck.” Dad was rarely home. Then one day, he left entirely. Said he’d send money, didn’t want to see the boy. “Maybe someday.”
Mum was pretty—long honey hair, big eyes. To Alfie, she looked like a mermaid. She worked hard.
Then one day, she brought home Uncle Mike. Her boss. Offered her a lift when she was lugging shopping bags.
“Hello, little man. I’m Uncle Mike. Popped by. If it’s a bad time, I’ll dash. Brought you… well, some cakes. And this plane—old thing, my grandad’s. Your mum said you like tech. Oh, and a stuffed rabbit. Look—fluffy. Proper cuddly.”
His voice was soft, hesitant. He shuffled on the doorstep. Alfie froze.
“S’alright, Sophie. I’ll go. Lad wants you to himself,” Uncle Mike said, setting down the parcels and turning—waddling, really—toward the door.
Alfie smiled despite himself. “Don’t go!”
Uncle Mike lifted him up. Smelled of aftershave, biscuits, home.
“Look at you! Proper little heartbreaker. Sophie, he’s gorgeous! Never seen a lad like him!”
After that, he kept visiting. Sat on the floor in his suit to play. Brought books, read to Alfie. When Mum was knackered, he cooked—soups, pies, proper fry-ups. Alfie’s dad never lifted a pan. “Not a man’s job,” he’d sneered.
“Why d’you cook, Uncle Mike?”
“Love it, Alfie. Big family, me—eldest. Parents worked, so I fed the lot. Anyway, it’s grand! Cooking for your own. Your mum’s tired—let her rest.”
“But you’re tired too.”
“I’m tough as boots. Summer, we’ll go to my cottage. Frogs in the well there. Catch fish, pick daisies for Mum.” He hugged Alfie tight.
The boy clung on. More than anything, he wanted Uncle Mike to stay.
A month later, they bumped into Dad—drunk, arm round some woman.
“Who’s this, Soph? Couldn’t do better than this lump?”
“Dad, that’s Uncle Mike. Don’t be mean!”
“What? Got a mouth now, have you?” Dad grabbed Uncle Mike’s collar.
“Don’t! Please!” Alfie clung to his leg.
After that, Dad’s parents took Alfie more. Berated Mum. Said Uncle Mike was nothing. Dad was Dad.
Alfie tried talking to Uncle Mike.
“They’re right, lad. He’s your father. Should respect him. Maybe if I weren’t here…”
“No! Don’t go!”
Alfie grew. Home was warm, safe. Uncle Mike was always busy—gardening, tinkering, teaching Alfie woodwork. Bought a car, let him “steer” on his lap.
Neighbours whispered: “Handsome boy. Odd, though—father’s plain as porridge.”
“Not his dad. Real dad’s a looker. Fancy Sophie downgrading to this frumpy bloke.”
“Lies! Uncle Mike’s the best!” Alfie yelled.
Uncle Mike said nothing. Truth was truth.
Mum’s parents weren’t keen either. “Real dad’s a stunner. Why shack up with this odd little man?” Never mind that he was kind, clever, hardworking.
Years on, strolling with Lucy, Alfie said: “Love my stepdad more than my real dad. He’s just… cruel. Family won’t forgive me for it.”
“Alf, forgive them. Who cares? I like Uncle Mike too.”
When Alfie graduated—dreaming of the navy, making them proud—Mum sent a telegram: *Uncle Mike’s ill.*
Alfie raced home. Big, strong, handsome now—yet he sobbed in the hallway.
“Just don’t die. Hear me?”
Uncle Mike had slipped quietly into their lives, love in his wake. Small, funny, shielding them always. He *was* life.
In the hospital, Alfie barely recognised him. Wasted, frail. But those eyes—still shining, just like when Alfie was small.
Falling to his knees, he cried: “Dad! Please live! I need you! I’ll take you sailing, like I promised!”
Uncle Mike had always said Alfie had one father. Never asked for the title. But his face lit up—he’d waited.
“Make peace with your dad, Alf. However he is, he’s blood. And look after Mum. You two… you were my stars. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”
“*Thank you*,” Alfie wept.
He made peace. His dad marvelled at him, apologised, begged him to visit.
“I will, Dad. We’ll catch up.”
Now, returning from sea, Alfie gathers daisies and goes where Uncle Mike rests. Watches clouds race. Remembers the cottage, the frog. Holds the lantern they built together.
“Light it, son. Even if you can’t see me… I’ll come. Sit by you. Hug my golden boy.”
Alfie whispers to the dark sky: “I lit it, Dad. I’m waiting.”
