A Home for Hope
Edward had always admired his older brother and followed his lead since childhood. At the dinner table, he’d only eat what Thomas ate, even if he hated it. If Thomas ran outside without a hat, Edward would tear his own off too. Their mother would scold the elder, demanding he cover up—lest Edward catch a chill.
The six-year gap between them felt like a lifetime to Edward. Why couldn’t their mother have had him just two or three years sooner? Thomas would leave to meet his mates, never taking his little brother along.
“I’m not your babysitter. The lads would take the mickey,” Thomas would say dismissively.
Edward would burst into tears.
“Cut it out, or I won’t draw with you anymore.”
And just like that, Edward would go silent, as if someone had flipped a switch.
Thomas was good at drawing. Edward watched, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil flew across the paper. He’d try to copy, but his scribbles were a mess. Then Thomas would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to use. Those moments, side by side, were the happiest of Edward’s life—ones he treasured deeply.
Of course, they argued, even fought. Edward often got the worst of it. In petty revenge, he’d hide Thomas’s pencils or doodle moustaches on his portraits. Thomas would cuff him round the ear and call him “shrimp” or “runt”—words Edward despised.
Once, though, Thomas took Edward to the park where the local boys hung out, hiding in the bushes to smoke.
“Tell Mum and I’ll throttle you,” Thomas warned, spitting through his teeth.
Edward never doubted he meant it. Even when Thomas was rough, he never snitched.
At school, everyone knew Edward was Thomas’s little brother, so they left him alone. Thomas wasn’t a troublemaker, but people feared him. He trained in boxing, fought till he bled. Few could match him.
Edward begged their mother to let him join the same gym, but—like with drawing—he was hopeless. He hated fighting. He quit soon after, admitting defeat. He stopped trying to be like Thomas and threw himself into his studies instead—where he outshone his brother completely.
Thomas could throw a punch, but schoolwork bored him. After A-levels, he enrolled in a polytechnic for architecture. His sketches began to feature the same girl over and over. Nothing special, Edward thought.
Now Thomas had a student’s life, and there was no room for schoolboy Edward. He came home late, lost in thought, distant.
Once, Edward stumbled on a poem in Thomas’s notebook. He knew at once who it was for—the girl from his drawings.
In a careless moment, Edward remarked that his brother could do better.
“You should draw someone like Emily Hartwell. She’s the prettiest girl in our year. Hell, the whole school. That’s who you should sketch, who you should write poetry for.” He even quoted a line from Thomas’s verse.
Edward didn’t see it coming. He woke up on the floor, his cheek burning like he’d been branded.
“What’s wrong with you? Fighting again?” Their mother eyed him sharply over dinner.
Thomas scoffed and kept shovelling spaghetti bolognese into his mouth.
“Slipped and face-planted a pothole,” Edward muttered through gritted teeth. Talking hurt.
Their mother shot Thomas a glare. He just shrugged. She fetched a frozen steak from the fridge, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Edward.
“Hold that to your face.”
In his final year, Thomas announced he was getting married and bringing his fiancée home at the weekend.
“Ha! Groom-to-be,” Edward snorted.
“You got a problem with that?” Thomas glowered, and Edward knew better than to push it. One punch had been enough.
“Nah, just glad. You won’t be living here, right? Means I get the room to myself. Brilliant. No more of your snoring. Don’t chicken out now.”
Thomas relaxed, clapping Edward on the back.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Lucky you, little bro.”
Hope was lovely—sweet-faced, with warm hazel eyes, a turned-up nose, and curly chestnut hair. She clung to Thomas’s arm, answering their parents’ questions bravely. It was obvious she adored him. Edward burned with jealousy. To him, Thomas was the best brother anyone could have. And this Hope…
At the table, Edward stole glances at her. The more he looked, the more he liked her.
“Stop eyeing your brother’s girl,” his mother said after Thomas left to walk Hope home.
“As if. I’ll find someone better,” Edward shot back.
After the wedding, Thomas moved in with Hope and her mum. He rarely visited home. He’d grown up overnight. After graduating, he landed a job at the city’s biggest construction firm. A year later, they had a son. The flat felt cramped, so Thomas started building a house. Designed it himself, built it himself. His mates helped. Their father approved, chipping in money.
By then, Edward had finished school and, for once, didn’t follow Thomas. He went to uni for law. Sniffed that construction was for failures. Clever people worked with their heads, not their hands.
Once, their mother sent Edward to deliver clothes for his nephew. Hope had blossomed—softer, more beautiful. He blushed, mumbling as he handed her the bag.
“Come in.” She laughed, tugging him inside. “Thomas is away, and my washing line snapped in the bathroom. Fix it? He won’t be back for days, and I’ve nowhere to hang the laundry.”
So Edward restrung the line. Then Hope passed him the baby and set the table. The boy studied Edward seriously before snuggling against him. His heart lurched. Holding the child, watching Hope fuss over him—it felt so right.
For the first time, he saw Hope through Thomas’s eyes. And he was lost. She haunted his dreams after that—strolling by the pond, feeding ducks…
Edward dated, even went out with Emily Hartwell. But she seemed silly and selfish, like all the others.
Three days later, Hope called their mother, who gasped, nearly dropping the phone.
“Could be anything! Maybe he missed the train, his phone died… Don’t jump to conclusions…” She shot their father a worried look. “We’ll come over.”
“What’s happened?”
“Going to Hope’s. Thomas hasn’t come back. He should’ve been here this morning. She rang work—he never showed. Said he called when he got on the train. Then nothing. His phone’s off. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
But Hope had no news, just tears. Their parents went to the police. They took the report but wouldn’t search for three days. “Probably shacked up with some bird,” they said. “He’ll turn up.”
The next morning, the police rang. A body had been found outside town—matched Thomas’s description. Their mother wailed, collapsing. Their father stayed with her; Edward went to identify him.
No doubt. The man in the morgue was Thomas. For the first time, Edward realised how much he loved his brother. He sobbed right there. The coroner said Thomas had been stabbed, then pushed from the train. No witnesses. His wallet and phone were gone.
At the funeral, Hope stood pale and frozen, staring at Thomas in the coffin. She broke when they lowered him into the ground.
Thomas had nearly finished the house. Just the finishing touches left. Their father and Edward took over. Six months later, they all moved in. Hope wouldn’t go alone. Her mother refused to leave her flat. There was plenty of space. They rented out her flat to cover the mortgage.
Hope was always sad—didn’t even smile for her son. No one saw her cry. Probably wept at night.
Edward couldn’t sleep. How could he, with her just a wall away? Sometimes she flinched when he spoke.
“Scared of me?” he asked once.
“Opposite. I want to touch you. You sound like Thomas. Look like him.”
“Then touch me,” Edward said, stepping closer.
She backed away, horrified. Not what he’d expected. They got along well—she made him breakfast, ironed his shirts. They walked with Max, who held his hand. But any hint of feelings, and she withdrew.
Three years passed—torture for Edward. He caught his mother’s disapproving looks but couldn’t help himself.
Sometimes girls called, and he’d talk too sweetly. He’d watch Hope turn away or leave. That was the point—see if she cared. She did. But he couldn’t say it.
Until one day, he did.
“Thomas is gone. And he’s not coming back. Can’t you see I love you? Being near you but not touching you—it’s agony. I can’t take it. You feel it too. I know you do.”
“Edward, you’re sweet. ButShe finally took his hand, and in that quiet moment, the house Thomas had built became a home for all of them.
