From the moment he laid eyes on Uncle Jack, eight-year-old Tommy disliked him—no, he downright hated him.
That evening, his mum, twisting her fingers nervously, said to him, “Tommy, meet Uncle Jack. We work together, and now we’ve decided to live together.”
Tommy frowned, confused. What did that mean? Was this strange man going to stay with them now?
“What about Dad?” Tommy shot his mum a sharp look before glaring at Uncle Jack, who stood awkwardly by the door.
“Tommy, don’t start!” His mum’s voice grew tense, even rising slightly.
“Dad’s coming back! He *is*! We don’t need you!” Tommy shouted at the stranger before tears pricked his eyes. He turned and bolted into his room.
“Tom, love,” his mum said softly, following him as he threw himself onto his bed. “How many times must I tell you? Your dad left us—left *you*. He’s not coming back, not ever. Uncle Jack… he’s good to us. You’ll see. He’ll take care of us, and you’ll be friends.” She smoothed his hair, her touch gentle, but Tommy stayed curled up, his face turned to the wall. He didn’t believe her.
Dad had always been away for long stretches, driving his lorry across the country. But he *always* came home—laughing, arms full of gifts. “Oi! Come see what I’ve brought!” he’d boom from the gate, and Tommy would sprint out, arms wide. “Dad! Dad! What’ve you got me?”
The last time Dad left, Mum had cried after a hushed kitchen argument. “Listen, Mary,” Dad had muttered, “you knew about my other family. I’ve got to think of them.” Tommy had been six, too young to understand. *Other family?* That couldn’t be. They *were* his family—him and Mum.
But the next morning, Dad was gone. “When’s he coming back?” Tommy had asked.
Mum sighed. “He’s not.” She explained—another wife, other children—but Tommy refused to believe her. He screamed, cried, called her a liar. Dad loved him. Dad *would* come back.
He waited. And waited.
Mum snapped when he asked about Dad.
And now—Uncle Jack.
That night, he heard them talking in the kitchen.
“Mary, you should’ve prepared him,” Uncle Jack said.
“He’ll adjust. It’ll sort itself out,” Mum replied briskly.
At breakfast, Uncle Jack praised the fry-up like it was some gourmet meal. Mum smiled, refilling his tea.
“Tom, want me to drive you to school? Let you steer a bit?” Uncle Jack offered.
“I’ll walk,” Tommy grumbled.
Dad had let him sit in the cab of his lorry (engine off, going nowhere), letting him twist the wheel and flick switches, pretending he was driving into the sunset. He didn’t need Uncle Jack’s pity.
But curiosity got the better of him—what kind of car did Uncle Jack have? Probably some clunker like old Mr. Higgins next door, who only cranked his Rover to life once a month for the market.
To his surprise, Uncle Jack’s car was sleek, silver. Mum waved as they drove off toward town, Uncle Jack giving a cheerful beep. Tommy scowled and stomped the other way. At the end of the lane, his best mate Alfie waited.
“Tough break,” Alfie said, scratching his neck—a habit whenever his stepdad came to mind. Alfie’s stepfather had lived with them for years—a drinker, quick with shouting and cuffs. Alfie’s mum never stepped in, too busy drinking alongside him.
Tommy’s stomach twisted. What if Uncle Jack was like that?
But Uncle Jack didn’t drink. He whistled while fixing things—the fence, the leaky tap—always inviting Tommy to help. Tommy always refused.
Still, he’d watch from a distance, mesmerised by how *easy* Uncle Jack made it look. The house slowly transformed under his hands. Mum smiled more, laughed more.
Tommy seethed. He hid tools, nails—anything to provoke him. But Uncle Jack just chuckled. “Must be the house sprites. Play your games, but give them back, eh?” He’d wink, then find what he needed elsewhere.
At dinner, Uncle Jack asked about school, offered homework help.
“It’s fine. Don’t need it,” Tommy always muttered. Alfie’s stepdad never helped—just thumped him for bad marks. Tommy was used to managing alone.
Once, he came home with a black eye after scuffling with Year Six lads.
“Tom, want to talk about it?” Uncle Jack asked, deadly serious.
“Don’t need *you*,” Tommy spat, shoving his plate away.
Uncle Jack sighed. “If it’s a fair fight, fine. But if he’s being bullied…”
Mum agreed.
*Oh, brilliant. My personal bodyguard now?* Tommy thought bitterly. The next morning, he slipped salt into Uncle Jack’s tea—petty, but satisfying.
Uncle Jack sipped, paused, then poured it out calmly. “Gone cold. No harm.”
Months passed. One evening, Uncle Jack returned alone.
“Where’s Mum?” Tommy asked warily.
“She’s in hospital—nothing serious,” Uncle Jack said gently. “She… we’re having a baby, Tom. She needs to rest.”
Tommy froze. First Uncle Jack, now *this*? He’d be replaced. Forgotten.
That night, he stuffed a bag and slipped out, marching into the dark. *Let Mum miss me. Let her regret this.*
But as he walked, other thoughts crept in. Uncle Jack wasn’t so bad. He’d fixed the house, taken Tommy fishing, taught him about engines. At Christmas, he’d bought him a remote-control helicopter—Mum could never afford that.
And Dad… three years, not a word. Even before, his visits had been brief—a hug at the door, a cheap toy, never asking how Tommy was. Once, when the kitchen shelf collapsed, Dad just shrugged. “Sort it yourself.” Mum had hammered it back crookedly, until Uncle Jack redid it.
Tommy stopped, lost in thought—then heard ice crack underfoot.
He’d wandered onto the frozen river. Spring had weakened it. His heart pounded. He turned—*CRACK*—
Uncle Jack found Tommy’s empty room, the rucksack gone. He sped to Alfie’s—no luck—then toward the bridge. A small figure floundered on the ice.
“Uncle Jack!” Tommy screamed as the ice gave way.
The water was *freezing*. His coat dragged him under, but he clawed at the ledge—then strong hands hauled him up.
“I’ve got you, son. I’ve got you.”
Back home, Uncle Jack rubbed warmth into Tommy’s limbs, wrapped him in blankets.
“Sorry if I’ve… messed up,” Uncle Jack admitted. “Never had kids. But I love your mum. And you.”
Tommy’s throat clogged. Uncle Jack *was* good. And not—not *Uncle Jack* anymore.
“Mum’ll be upset,” he whispered.
“We won’t tell her. No stress,” his *dad* promised, ruffling his hair.
When Mum returned early from hospital, she paused at the sight—Tommy and Jack on the floor, building a model ship.
“No, Dad, that piece goes *here*,” Tommy corrected.
“Right you are, lad. Looks proper now.”
Mum smiled. At dinner, she’d share her news: a baby *sister*.
Finally, everything was right.
