A Home for Hope
Anthony had always looked up to his elder brother, emulating him from an early age. At the dinner table, he ate only what Victor ate, even if he disliked it. If Victor ran outside without a hat, Anthony would tear his off too. Their mother would scold the older boy to put his hat back on, lest Anthony catch cold.
Six years separated the brothers, but to Anthony, it might as well have been a lifetime. Why couldn’t Mother have borne him just two or three years sooner? Victor went out with his mates, leaving Anthony behind.
“Stop tagging along. I’m not your babysitter, and the lads will take the mickey,” Victor would say dismissively.
Anthony would burst into tears.
“Pack it in, or I won’t draw with you again.”
And just like that, Anthony fell silent, as if switched off.
Victor was a gifted artist. Anthony watched, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil darted across the paper. When he tried himself, his efforts were little more than scribbles. Victor would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to apply. Those moments were Anthony’s happiest, treasured memories.
Of course, they quarrelled—sometimes even fought. Anthony got the worst of it. In petty revenge, he’d hide Victor’s pencils or doodle moustaches on his portraits. Victor would cuff him and call him “runt” or “pup,” names Anthony despised.
Once, Victor relented and took Anthony to the park where the local boys gathered. They hid behind bushes, sneaking cigarettes.
“Snitch to Mum, and I’ll wallop you,” Victor warned, spitting the words through his teeth.
Anthony never doubted he meant it. Even when Victor was rough with him, he never told their parents.
At school, Anthony was left alone—everyone knew he was Victor’s brother. Victor wasn’t a bully, but he was feared. He trained in boxing, fought bloody scrapes, and few dared challenge him.
Anthony begged their mother to enrol him in the same boxing club. But, like drawing, he had no knack for it. He didn’t care for fists. Soon, he quit, accepting defeat. He stopped straining to be like Victor and buried himself in studies—where, as it turned out, he surpassed his brother effortlessly.
Victor swung a mean right hook but scraped by in school. After graduation, he enrolled in a polytechnic, studying architecture. His sketches began featuring the same girl’s face. Anthony thought little of it.
Now Victor had a student’s life, and there was no room for schoolboy Anthony. He came home late, distracted and quiet.
One day, Anthony stumbled upon a sheet of poetry in Victor’s notebook. He knew at once who inspired it—the girl from the sketches.
Jokingly, he remarked that Victor could do better—someone like Emily Whitmore, the prettiest girl in school, nay, the whole town. He even quoted a line from the poem.
Before he knew it, Anthony was on the floor, cheek ablaze as if branded with a hot iron.
“What happened? Fighting again?” Mother eyed him sharply at supper.
Victor snorted, shovelling in spaghetti as if nothing had happened.
“Slipped. Face met a pothole,” Anthony muttered through gritted teeth.
Mother shot Victor a look. He merely shrugged. She fetched frozen meat from the icebox, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Anthony.
“Hold it to your cheek.”
In his final year, Victor announced he was getting married and bringing his bride home at the weekend.
“Getting hitched, eh?” Anthony smirked.
“Got a problem with that?” Victor glowered.
Anthony knew better than to push—his jaw still ached from the last time.
“Nah, just glad. Means the room’s all mine. No more of your snoring.”
Victor relaxed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lucky sod.”
Hope was sweet-natured, with warm hazel eyes, a pert nose, and chestnut curls. She clung to Victor’s arm, answering their parents’ questions bravely. Clearly, she adored him. Anthony burned with jealousy—Victor was *his* brother. But as he stole glances at Hope across the table, he found himself drawn to her.
“Don’t stare,” Mother chided after Victor left to walk Hope home.
“Not bothered. I’ll find someone better,” Anthony scoffed.
After the wedding, Victor moved in with Hope and her mother. He visited seldom, suddenly grown. Graduating, he joined the city’s largest construction firm. A year later, their son was born. The flat grew cramped, so Victor began building a house—designing and labouring himself, with friends’ help. Father lent money, proud.
Anthony, meanwhile, finished school and broke tradition—instead of following Victor, he read law at university. Sneering, he called construction “work for those who can’t think.”
Once, Mother sent Anthony to deliver clothes for their nephew. Hope had blossomed, radiantly womanly. Flustered, he thrust the bag at her.
“Come in,” she laughed, tugging him inside. “Victor’s away, and the washing line’s snapped in the bath. Fix it? He won’t be back for days.”
Anthony obliged. Later, she handed him the baby and laid the table. The boy studied him solemnly before nestling close. Anthony’s heart lurched. Holding the child, watching Hope bustle—he saw her anew.
From then on, Hope haunted his dreams: walking by the pond, feeding ducks…
He dated—even Emily Whitmore—but found them shallow.
Three years passed in torment. Mother’s reproachful glances prickled, but he couldn’t help himself.
Once, he confronted Hope. “Victor’s gone. Don’t you see? I love you. This—being near yet apart—is agony.”
“Anthony, you’re kind. But this arrangement… it was a mistake.”
“Why? Aren’t you happy here? Mother dotes on Max, you’re free—”
“You’re like him, but you’re not *him*. Find someone your age.”
“Age? Four years? Nothing. I want *you*.” Reaching for her, he watched her flee.
Hope avoided him, shielding herself with Max.
A month later, Anthony announced he’d taken a job in London.
“Because of Hope?” Mother asked.
“If I don’t see her, I’ll forget.”
But six months on, Father’s death brought him back. Max rushed into his arms.
“You’re heavy now,” Anthony murmured, spotting Hope.
“Glad you’re here,” she said stiffly.
His heart surged. Setting Max down, he approached her.
“I meant to leave, but your father fell ill…”
“Thank you for staying.”
That was all.
At the funeral, Anthony asked about Max’s schooling, steering conversation from grief.
“Private, I hear. Good one.”
“Expensive,” Hope said distantly.
“I earn well. Nothing’s too much for you.”
A neighbour’s knock cut them short.
Next day, Anthony sat with Max on the veranda.
“Remember your dad?”
“No. But when I see photos, I pretend. Mum says you’re like him. I wish you were my dad. Do you like her?”
“You’re too young for this,” Anthony said, hugging him. “But yes. She loved your father.”
“You’re nice too.”
Anthony tensed—Hope stood in the doorway.
“Don’t rush her,” Mother said, appearing behind Hope. “But don’t wait forever. People talk, seeing you three together. Victor would’ve wanted this. Max thinks of you as his father.” She sighed and left.
Hope stared at her feet.
“I leave in two days,” Anthony said, brushing past.
“Wait,” she called. “Don’t go. I’ll move to Mum’s.”
“Really? Uproot Max? This house is Victor’s gift. Who’ll watch him after school? Your mother needs care herself. Bring her here. Max is safe with Mother. Your choice.” He walked away.
Next morning, Hope came to him.
“Packing?” she asked, eyeing the shirts on his bed.
“Yes.”
“I’ll marry you.”
Anthony spun—books tumbled from the shelf.
“Not out of guilt. I’m grateful—”
“Gratitude isn’t love.”
“I miss you,” she whispered.
They stood frozen until Max burst in.
“Grandma! Quick!”
“What?” Mother rushed in.
“Mum’s agreed to marry me.”
After the wedding, Anthony returned home. Three women and a child needed him. The house, too—Victor’s legacy. Now, he was the man of the house. And soon, another child would come. Anthony hoped for a daughter…
