From the very first moment, young Tommy took an instant dislike to Uncle James—no, more than that, he downright detested him.
That evening, his mother fidgeted with her fingers nervously before speaking to her eight-year-old son.
“Tommy, this is Uncle James. We work together, and now… well, we’ve decided to live together too.”
Tommy scowled, baffled. What did that mean? Was this strange man really going to stay here with them?
“What about Dad?” Tommy shot his mother a dark look before glaring at Uncle James, who stood awkwardly by the door.
“Tommy, don’t start!” His mother grew even more flustered, her voice rising.
“Dad’s coming back! He *has* to come back! We don’t need *you*!” Tommy shouted at the intruder before hot tears spilled down his face. He bolted to his room and flung himself onto the bed.
“Tommy, love,” his mother said softly, sitting beside him. “Haven’t I told you before? Your dad left us. Left *me*. Left *you*. He’s not coming back. Not ever. But Uncle James—he’s kind. You’ll see, he’ll take care of us. You’ll be friends.” She stroked his hair, her voice gentle, but Tommy refused to turn around, pressing his face into the pillow. He didn’t believe her.
He *couldn’t*.
Dad had left before—gone for weeks at a time, driving his big lorry across the country—but he always came home. Always. Bursting through the front gate, shouting, “Oi, who’s ready for me?” And Tommy would sprint toward him, arms wide. “Dad! Dad! What’d you bring me?”
But the last time…
That night, Mum and Dad had talked for hours in the kitchen. Mum had been crying, and Dad kept saying, “Margaret, don’t make a scene. You knew I had another family. I’ve got to think of them now.”
Tommy had been six, too young to understand why Mum was sobbing. *Another family?* That couldn’t be. Dad had *them*—Mum and him. That was his family.
When he woke the next morning, Dad was gone.
“When’s he coming back?” he’d asked Mum, who’d been quiet all day, sighing every few minutes.
Mum had tried to explain—Dad had another wife, other children. That they didn’t matter to him anymore.
Tommy had screamed at her, cried until his throat hurt, called her a liar. Dad *loved* him. He’d come back.
But he never did.
And now Uncle James was here.
The next morning at breakfast, Uncle James sat with them, praising Mum’s fried eggs as if they were something special. Mum smiled, pouring him another cup of tea.
“Tommy, fancy a lift to school? You can pretend to steer,” Uncle James offered.
“I’ll walk,” Tommy muttered.
Dad used to let him sit behind the wheel of his lorry—not that it ever moved, but Tommy loved twisting the steering wheel, pressing every button, imagining grand adventures beyond the horizon.
He wanted nothing from Uncle James.
Uncle James didn’t push, and Mum didn’t scold him for being rude.
Tommy had long been 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, “Tommy, up! Breakfast’s on the table!”
They only ate together on weekends.
Still, curiosity gnawed at him. What kind of car did Uncle James drive? Probably some old rustbucket like old Mr. Wilkes down the road, the one he only started once a month to drive into town.
But no—Uncle James had a sleek silver car. Mum climbed in beside him, waving as they drove off toward town. Tommy didn’t wave back.
Two streets down, his best mate Danny was waiting on the bench.
“Tough luck,” Danny said, scratching his head—a habit he’d picked up from his own stepdad, who’d lived with them four years now. A nasty drunk who shouted, shoved, and smacked Danny around whether he deserved it or not.
Mum never drank. She was always kind.
But Tommy’s fears proved unfounded—Uncle James didn’t touch a drop.
He whistled while fixing things around the house, always inviting Tommy to help. Tommy always refused.
“Don’t need to,” he’d grumble before sneaking back to watch, begrudgingly impressed by how easily Uncle James fixed everything.
By winter, the house looked brighter than ever. Mum laughed more. Smiled more.
Tommy still fumed, hiding tools, nails—anything he could—waiting for Uncle James to snap.
But he never did.
“House elf’s been at it again,” Uncle James would say with a wink, as if it were all a game.
At dinner, he’d ask about Tommy’s day, if he needed help with schoolwork.
“It’s fine. I can do it.”
Danny’s stepdad never offered help—just beltings for bad marks.
Tommy had always managed alone.
But one afternoon, he and Danny got into a scrap with some older lads. Nothing serious—they’d even made up afterward—but Tommy came home with a shiner.
“Tommy… do you want to talk about it?” Uncle James asked, uncharacteristically serious.
“Don’t need *your* help,” Tommy snapped, stomping off.
He heard Mum say, “Boys will be boys.”
“But what if he’s being bullied?” Uncle James replied. “He’s already dealing with enough because of us. If it happens again, I’ll talk to his teacher—quietly.”
The next morning, Tommy slipped salt into Uncle James’s tea—a stupid, petty act.
Uncle James took one sip, poured it out, and made a fresh cup.
“Too cold,” he said simply.
Spring came.
One evening, Tommy waited, uneasy—Mum and Uncle James were late.
Finally, headlights flashed outside.
Uncle James walked in alone.
“Where’s Mum?”
“Don’t panic. She’s in hospital—just precautionary. We’ll manage fine.”
Tommy’s stomach lurched.
“She’s having a baby,” Uncle James said gently. “She needs rest.”
Tommy froze.
First Uncle James. Now a *replacement* child.
That night, he stuffed his rucksack and slipped out the door.
He marched through the village, bitterness fading with each step.
Uncle James wasn’t so bad. He’d fixed the house. Taken Tommy fishing. Even bought him that remote-control helicopter for Christmas—Mum never would’ve.
And Dad…
Three years.
Not so much as a letter.
Even before, he’d only ever stayed a day or two, tossing Tommy some cheap toy, never asking how he was.
Tommy stopped walking.
A sharp *crack* beneath his feet.
He’d wandered onto the frozen river—dangerous this late in spring.
Ice splintered. Water swallowed him.
Strong hands hauled him out.
“All right, son. All right.”
Back home, Uncle James rubbed him down with whisky, wrapped him in blankets.
“Forgive me if I’ve bungled things,” he murmured. “Never had children before. But I love your mum. And you.”
Tommy finally understood.
Uncle James wasn’t just *some man*.
“Dad,” he rasped, clinging to him.
When Mum came home early, she found them building a model ship together.
“Nah, *Dad*, that bit doesn’t fit. Try this one.”
She leaned against the doorframe, smiling.
At dinner, she’d tell them—it was a girl.
Everything, at last, was right.
