A Home for Hope
Edmund always looked up to his older brother William and followed his every move from childhood. At dinner, he ate only what William did, even if he disliked it. If William ran outside without a hat, Edmund would tear his off too. Their mother would scold the elder son to put his hat back on at once, lest Edmund catch a chill.
Though there were six years between them, to Edmund, it might as well have been a lifetime. Why couldn’t their mother have had him just two or three years sooner? William would go out with his mates, never taking his little brother along.
“I’m not your nursemaid. The lads would laugh at me,” William would say dismissively.
Edmund would burst into tears.
“Stop it! Or I won’t draw with you anymore.”
And just like that, Edmund would fall silent, as if switched off.
William drew beautifully. Edmund watched, mesmerised, as the pencil moved swiftly across the paper. He tried himself, but his attempts were mere scribbles. Then William would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to apply. Those moments, side by side, were the happiest of Edmund’s life, treasured deeply.
Of course, they quarrelled and even fought. Edmund often came off worse. In helpless fury, he took revenge—hiding William’s pencils, sketching moustaches and spectacles onto the portraits in his sketchbook. William would cuff him round the head and call him “shrimp” or “pup,” which Edmund detested.
Once, William took Edmund to the park where the neighbourhood boys loitered, smoking behind the bushes.
“Tell Mum and Dad, and I’ll thrash you,” William threatened, spitting through his teeth. Edmund never doubted he meant it. Even when William was at his worst, Edmund never tattled.
At school, everyone knew Edmund was William’s brother, so they left him alone. William wasn’t a troublemaker, but he was respected—trained in boxing and would fight till he bled. Few could match him.
Edmund convinced their mother to enrol him in the same boxing club, but, like drawing, it didn’t suit him. He hated fighting and soon gave up, finally admitting defeat before his elder brother. He stopped straining to be like William and threw himself into schoolwork—where, as it turned out, he surpassed him entirely.
William could swing a fist, but his marks were middling. After school, he went to a polytechnic to study construction. His drawings increasingly featured the same girl—nothing special, in Edmund’s opinion.
Now William had his own student life, with no room for schoolboy Edmund. He came home late, distracted, lost in thought.
Once, Edmund stumbled upon a sheet of poetry in William’s notebook and knew at once whom his brother had written it for—the girl from his sketches.
In passing, Edmund remarked that William could do better. “You should draw someone like Lucy Whitmore. She’s the prettiest girl in our year—no, in the whole school. That’s who deserves your poems.” Then he quoted a line from William’s verse.
Edmund didn’t even see it coming. He woke up on the floor, his cheek burning as if seared with a hot iron.
“What happened to you? Fighting again?” Their mother fixed him with a sharp look at dinner.
William snorted dismissively and kept wolfing down his bangers and mash.
“Slipped and hit my face on the pavement,” Edmund muttered through clenched teeth. Talking hurt.
Their mother shot William a stern glance. He just shrugged. She fetched a frozen steak from the fridge, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Edmund.
“Hold it to your cheek.”
In his final year, William announced he was getting married and would bring his fiancée home at the weekend.
“Ha, the bridegroom!” Edmund scoffed.
“Got a problem with that?” William glowered, making it clear another punch might follow. Edmund knew better than to push his luck—the first one had taken ages to recover from.
“Nah, just pleased. You won’t be living here, right? So the room’s all mine. Brilliant! No more listening to your snoring. Hope you don’t back out.”
William relaxed, clapping Edmund on the shoulder. “Won’t back out. Lucky you, little brother.”
Hope was sweet and pretty, with warm hazel eyes, a pert nose, and wavy chestnut hair. She carried the scent of spring. She held William’s hand tightly and answered their parents’ questions with quiet courage, plainly besotted. Edmund was jealous. To him, William was the best brother a lad could have—and now this Hope…
Over dinner, Edmund stole glances at her. And the more he looked, the more he liked her.
“Don’t stare at your brother’s girl like that,” his mother chided once William had gone to walk Hope home.
“As if I care. I’ll find someone better,” Edmund sneered.
After the wedding, William moved in with Hope and her mother. He rarely visited home, suddenly grown. After graduating, he joined the city’s biggest construction firm. A year later, their son was born. The cramped flat grew too small, so William started building a house. He designed and built it himself, with friends’ help. Their father approved, chipping in money.
Edmund, meanwhile, finished school and broke tradition—instead of following William, he went to university to study law. He scoffed that building was for “mugs with no brains.”
One day, their mother sent Edmund to deliver clothes for his growing nephew. Hope had blossomed, more womanly and lovely than ever. Blushing, he mumbled something as he handed over the bag.
“Come in.” Laughing, Hope tugged him inside. “William’s away, and the washing line in the bathroom snapped. Fix it? He won’t be back for three days, and I’ve washing to dry.”
Edmund fixed the line. Then Hope handed him the baby and set the table. The boy studied him solemnly before nestling against him. Edmund’s heart clenched. Holding the child felt unexpectedly sweet, watching Hope fuss over him.
For the first time, he saw her through William’s eyes—and was lost. From then on, Hope haunted his dreams. They walked by the pond in his sleep, feeding ducks…
Edmund dated girls, even Lucy Whitmore. But she seemed silly and selfish, like the others.
Three days later, Hope rang their mother, who gasped, nearly dropping the phone.
“Could be anything—maybe he missed the train, his phone died… Don’t jump to the worst…” she said, exchanging anxious glances with their father. “We’ll come now.”
“What’s happened?” their father asked.
“We’re going to Hope’s. William hasn’t come back. He was due this morning. She rang his work—he never showed. Said he called when he boarded the train. Then nothing. Phone’s dead. I’ve a bad feeling.”
But Hope had no news, only tears. Their parents went to the police, who took a report but wouldn’t search for three days. “Probably off with some bird,” they said. “He’ll turn up.”
The next morning, the police called. A body found outside town matched William’s description. Their mother wailed, collapsing. Their father stayed with her; Edmund went to identify him.
No doubt—it was William. For the first time, Edmund understood how much he’d loved his brother. He wept right there. The coroner said William had been stabbed and pushed from the train. No witnesses. His wallet and phone were gone.
At the funeral, Hope stood pale and rigid, staring at William in the coffin. She broke when they lowered him down.
William had nearly finished the house. Just details and final touches left. Their father and Edmund took over. Six months later, they all moved in—Hope refused to live there alone, and her mother wouldn’t leave her flat. There was space for everyone. They let the flat to pay debts.
Hope stayed sad, never smiling, even at her son. No one saw her cry—likely she wept at night.
Edmund couldn’t rest. How could he sleep, knowing she lay just beyond the wall? Sometimes she startled when he spoke or approached.
“Do I frighten you?” he once asked.
“The opposite. I want to touch you. Your voice… you’re so like him.”
“Then touch me,” Edmund said, stepping closer.
She recoiled, horror flitting across her face. Not what he’d expected. Usually, they chatted warmly. She’d cook for him, iron his shirts. They’d walk with little Max, who clung to Edmund’s hand. But hint at his feelings, and Hope withdrew.
Three years passed, torment for Edmund. He caught his mother’s reproachful looks but couldn’t help himself.
Sometimes girls called, and he’d flirt loudly, watching Hope turn away. He wanted to see if she’d react—if she cared. And she did. But he couldn’t speak his heart.
Until one day, he dared.
“William’s gone. He’s not coming back. Can’t you see I love you? Being near you without touching you isBut when Hope finally met his gaze and whispered, “I know,” her hand trembling in his, the house William built for them at last felt like home.
