From the moment he laid eyes on Uncle Alex, young Timmy took an instant dislike to him—more than that, he downright hated him.
That evening, Mum nervously twisted her fingers together as she spoke to her eight-year-old son.
“Tim, meet Uncle Alex. We work together, and now we’ve decided to live together too.”
Timmy scowled, not understanding. What did this strange bloke mean, living here with them?
“What about Dad?” He shot Mum an angry glare, then flicked his eyes toward Uncle Alex, who stood awkwardly by the door.
“Tim, don’t start!” Mum grew even more tense, her voice rising.
“Dad’s coming back! He will! We don’t need you!” Timmy yelled at the unfamiliar man. Tears welled up, and he bolted to his room.
“Tim, love. How many times must I tell you? Dad left us. He left me, and he left you. He’s not coming back. Ever.” Mum sat beside him on the bed as he buried his face in the pillow. She stroked his hair, murmuring softly, but Timmy wouldn’t look at her. He refused to believe her.
Dad had always been away for long stretches, driving his lorry, but he always returned—laughing, arms full of gifts. “Oi, come see who’s home!” he’d shout from the gate, and Timmy would sprint into his arms. “Dad! Dad! What’d you bring me?”
But before Dad left this last time, he and Mum had talked in the kitchen for ages. Mum had sobbed, and Dad kept saying, “Marian, don’t make a scene. You knew about my other family. I’ve got responsibilities.” Timmy had been six—too young to understand why Mum cried. How could Dad have another family? They were his family.
He’d fallen asleep, and in the morning, Dad was gone.
“When’s he coming back?” Timmy had asked. Mum had sighed, not meeting his eyes.
She told him Dad wasn’t coming back. That he had another wife, other kids. That they didn’t matter anymore. Timmy had been furious. He screamed, cried, called her a liar—Dad loved him, Dad would return.
But time passed, and Dad never did. Mum snapped if Timmy asked about him. And now this bloke, Uncle Alex, was moving in.
Mum left the room. Through the door, Timmy heard Uncle Alex say,
“Marian, you should’ve prepared him first.”
“Don’t fuss. He’ll get used to it.” Mum’s voice was firm.
At breakfast the next morning, Uncle Alex sat with them, praising Mum’s fried eggs like they were gourmet. She smiled, pouring him tea.
“Tim, want me to drive you to school? You can help steer,” Uncle Alex offered.
“I’ll walk,” Timmy muttered.
Dad had let him sit at the wheel of his lorry—though it never moved, Timmy loved twisting the wheel, pretending to drive into the sunset. But he wanted nothing from Uncle Alex.
The man didn’t press, and Mum didn’t scold him for rudeness. Truth was, Timmy was used to walking to school alone—Mum worked at the factory in the next town over, always rushing for the bus, shouting from the door, “Tim! Up! Breakfast’s on the table!” They only ate together on weekends.
Still, curiosity gnawed at him. What kind of car did Uncle Alex drive? Probably some old banger like old man Bert’s clunker, sputtering to life once a month for the market.
But no—Uncle Alex had a sleek silver car. Mum waved as they drove off toward town, and Uncle Alex tooted the horn. Timmy didn’t wave back.
Two streets over, his best mate Stevie waited on a bench.
“Rough luck, mate. Now he’ll start bossing you about,” Stevie said, scratching his neck—a nervous habit since his own stepdad moved in.
Uncle Gary drank, shouted, and clipped Stevie round the ear for anything. Stevie’s mum never stepped in—she drank too, reckoning a man knew best how to raise a boy.
Timmy scowled deeper. Would Uncle Alex turn out the same?
But to his surprise, Uncle Alex didn’t drink. Weekends, he whistled while fixing things, always inviting Timmy to help. Timmy snarled, “No thanks,” and stomped off—only to secretly watch from a distance as Uncle Alex repaired the fence, patched the roof.
The house slowly transformed. Mum laughed more, sighed less.
Timmy, stubborn, hid tools just to spite him. But Uncle Alex never lost his temper. He’d smirk, wink. “Gremlins about, eh? No matter—I’ll find ’em.” And he always did.
At dinner, Uncle Alex asked about school, offered homework help.
“It’s fine—I’ll manage,” Timmy always grumbled. Stevie’s stepdad never helped—just smacked him for bad marks.
One afternoon, Timmy and Stevie scrapped with some Year Six lads. A stupid row, quickly patched up, but Timmy got a shiner.
“Tim, want to talk about it?” Uncle Alex asked, serious for once.
“Don’t need anything from you,” Timmy shot back, abandoning his plate.
Later, eavesdropping, he heard Uncle Alex say, “If it’s just lads being lads, fine. But what if he’s being bullied? He’s had enough upheaval. If it happens again, I’ll speak to his teacher—quietly.”
Mum agreed. Timmy seethed. “Like I need protecting!”
The next morning, spitefully, he slipped salt into Uncle Alex’s tea. The man always drank it plain—he’d know it was no accident. Let him.
Uncle Alex sipped, paused, then calmly poured it out. “Gone cold. No bother.”
Autumn faded, winter passed. One spring evening, Mum and Uncle Alex were late. Timmy had just started worrying when headlights flashed outside—but only Uncle Alex returned.
“Where’s Mum?” Timmy demanded.
“She’s in hospital—just a precaution. We’ll manage till she’s back,” Uncle Alex said gently.
Timmy’s stomach lurched. “Why?”
“Nothing serious. But… you’re going to have a little brother or sister. Mum needs to rest.”
Timmy froze. First Uncle Alex. Now a baby. Would there even be room for him?
That night, he stuffed his rucksack and slipped out into the dark.
He stomped down the village lanes, furious. Let Mum regret bringing Uncle Alex home!
But as he walked, his anger ebbed. Uncle Alex wasn’t so bad. He’d fixed up the house, taken Timmy fishing, bought him that ace remote-control helicopter for Christmas (Mum never could’ve afforded it). And Mum—she smiled more now.
Dad… hadn’t visited in three years. Even before, he’d only stayed a day or two, tossing Timmy some cheap toy, never asking how he was.
Timmy stopped dead.
He’d wandered onto the river’s frozen edge. The ice was thin in spring—he knew that. Heart pounding, he turned back—
CRACK.
The ice split. Freezing water swallowed him. He clawed at the edge, gasping.
“Hold on, son! I’m here!” Uncle Alex sprinted across the ice.
Timmy clung with numb fingers. Strong arms hauled him out.
Back home, Uncle Alex rubbed warmth into him with whiskey, wrapped him in blankets.
“I’m sorry if I’ve mucked this up. Never had kids. But I love your mum—and you.”
Timmy swallowed. He’d been wrong. So wrong.
“Dad,” he croaked, pressing into Uncle Alex’s shoulder.
When Mum came home early, she froze in the doorway—Timmy and Alex were sprawled on the floor, building a model ship.
“Nah, Dad, that bit won’t fit. Try this one,” Timmy said.
Alex chuckled. “You’ve got the eye, son. Starting to look proper now.”
Mum leaned against the doorframe, smiling. At dinner, she’d share her own news—it was a girl.
Finally, everything was right.
