**A Home for Hope**
Anthony had always admired his elder brother, emulating him from the earliest days of childhood. At the table, he would eat only what Victor ate, even if he disliked it. If Victor ran outside without a hat, Anthony would tear his own off in an instant. Their mother would scold the older boy to put his back on at once, lest Anthony catch cold.
Six years separated them, but to Anthony, it might as well have been a lifetime. Why couldn’t their mother have borne him just two or three years sooner? Victor went out with his mates, and the younger brother was never invited.
*”I’m not your nursemaid. The lads would laugh at me,”* Victor would say dismissively. Anthony would burst into tears.
*”Stop it! Or I won’t draw with you anymore.”*
And just like that, Anthony would fall silent, as if switched off.
Victor was a fine artist. Anthony watched, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil flew across the paper. He tried to copy him, but his own efforts were mere scribbles. Then Victor would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to apply. Those quiet moments, side by side, were the happiest of Anthony’s young life, treasures he held close to his heart.
Of course, they quarrelled—even fought. Anthony often bore the brunt of his brother’s temper. Helpless, he would take petty revenge—hiding Victor’s pencils, scribbling moustaches and beards on the portraits in his sketchbook. Victor would cuff him on the head, calling him “shrimp” and “pup,” words Anthony despised.
Once, though, Victor relented and took Anthony to the park where the local lads gathered. They hid in the bushes, smoking.
*”Tell Mum and Dad, and I’ll thrash you,”* Victor warned, spitting the words between his teeth. Anthony never doubted he meant it. Even when Victor was at his worst, Anthony never complained to their parents.
At school, everyone knew Anthony was Victor’s brother, so they left him alone. Victor wasn’t a troublemaker, but he was feared. He trained in boxing and fought till he bled. Few could match him.
Anthony begged their mother to let him join the same boxing club. But like drawing, it came to nothing. He hated fighting. Soon enough, he quit, admitting defeat to his elder brother. He stopped straining to be like him and threw himself into his studies instead—and there, at last, he outshone Victor.
Victor swung a fine fist, but his schoolwork was middling. After finishing school, he enrolled in a polytechnic to study architecture. His sketches now often featured the same female face—nothing special, in Anthony’s opinion.
Victor had his own life now, one with no room for a schoolboy brother. He came home late, distracted and silent.
Once, Anthony found a sheet of poetry in Victor’s notebook. He knew at once whom the lines were for—the girl from the sketches.
In passing, Anthony remarked that Victor could surely find a prettier girl.
*”You ought to sketch someone like Emily Carter. She’s the prettiest girl in our year. The prettiest in the whole school, really. That’s who you should be drawing, who you should write poems for.”* And he quoted a line from Victor’s verse.
Anthony didn’t even see the blow coming. He woke on the floor, his cheek burning as if pressed with a red-hot iron.
*”What happened to you? Show me. Fighting again?”* his mother asked sharply at dinner.
Victor smirked and carried on eating his spaghetti as if nothing had happened.
*”Slipped and fell. Face met a pothole,”* Anthony muttered, each word aching.
Their mother shot Victor a hard look. He shrugged. She fetched a frozen steak from the fridge, 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 would bring his fiancée home at the weekend.
*”Ha! The bridegroom,”* Anthony scoffed.
*”Got a problem with that?”* Victor asked, eyes narrowing.
Anthony knew better than to push it. The last punch had taken ages to heal.
*”No, just happy for you. You won’t be living here, right? So the room’s all mine. Brilliant! No more listening to your snoring. Hope you don’t change your mind.”*
Victor relaxed, clapping Anthony on the shoulder.
*”Not a chance. Lucky you, little brother.”*
Hope was sweet and pretty, with clear hazel eyes, an upturned nose, and wavy chestnut hair. She carried the scent of spring with her.
She clung to Victor’s hand, answering his parents’ questions with quiet courage. It was plain she adored him. Anthony felt a sting of jealousy. Victor was the best brother anyone could have, and here was this Hope…
At dinner, Anthony stole glances at her. And the more he looked, the more he liked her.
*”Don’t stare at your brother’s girl,”* his mother chided once Victor had gone to walk Hope home.
*”As if I care. I’ll find someone better,”* Anthony shot back.
After the wedding, Victor moved in with Hope and her mother. He rarely visited home. He seemed to grow up overnight. After graduating, he joined the city’s largest construction firm. A year later, their son was born. The tiny flat grew cramped, and Victor began building a house—designing it himself, labouring over it with friends. Their father approved, lending money where he could.
Anthony, meanwhile, finished school and for the first time did not follow Victor. He studied law at university, sneering that building was for failures. Clever men worked with their heads, not their hands.
Once, their mother sent Anthony to deliver clothes for his growing nephew. Hope had softened, grown more womanly and beautiful. Anthony flushed, mumbling as he handed her the bag.
*”Come in,”* Hope laughed, tugging him inside. *”Victor’s away, and the washing line in the bathroom snapped. Could you fix it? He won’t be back for three days, and I’ve got laundry to hang.”*
So Anthony did. Then Hope handed him the baby and set the table. The boy studied him intently before nestling against him. Something in Anthony’s chest shifted. It felt good, holding the child, watching Hope bustle about for his sake.
For the first time, he saw Hope through his brother’s eyes. And he was lost. From then on, she haunted his dreams—walks by the pond, feeding ducks, the three of them together…
Anthony dated, of course—even Emily Carter. But she struck him as vain and silly, like all the rest.
Three days later, Hope rang their mother, who gasped, nearly dropping the receiver.
*”Anything could’ve happened—maybe he missed the train, his phone died… Don’t jump to the worst,”* she said, exchanging worried glances with their father. *”We’ll come now.”*
*”What’s happened?”* their father asked.
*”We’re going to Hope’s. Victor never came home. He was due back this morning. She rang his work—no one’s seen him. He called when he got on the train, then nothing. His phone’s off. I’ve a bad feeling about this.”*
But Hope had no news, only tears. Their parents went to the police, who took a report but said they wouldn’t search for three days. *”Probably strayed, found some girl. He’ll turn up.”*
The next morning, the police called. A body had been found outside town—a match for their son. Their mother wailed, collapsing. Their father stayed with her; Anthony went to identify the body.
There was no doubt. The man in the morgue was Victor. Anthony wept then, truly understanding for the first time how much he loved his brother. The coroner said Victor had been stabbed in the stomach, then thrown from the train. No witnesses, no leads. His wallet and phone were gone.
At the graveside, Hope stood pale and rigid, staring at Victor in the coffin. When they lowered him, she broke at last.
The house was nearly done. Just finishes left. Anthony and their father took over. Six months later, they all moved in—Hope refusing to live there alone, her mother unwilling to leave her own flat. There was space for everyone. They rented the flat to pay off loans.
Hope moved through the days like a ghost, never smiling, not even for her son. Her tears were private—shed at night, perhaps.
Anthony couldn’t sleep. How could he, knowing she lay just beyond the wall? Sometimes she startled when he spoke or approached.
*”Are you afraid of me?”* he asked once.
*”The opposite. I want to touch you. Your voice is like his. You look like him, too.”*
*”Then touch me,”* Anthony said, stepping closer.
She backed away, horror flickering in her eyes—not what he’d hoped to see. They talked easily otherwise. She made him breakfast, ironBut in the end, as the years softened their grief and the house filled with the laughter of a new child—a little girl, just as Anthony had hoped—they found their way back to each other, not as shadows of the past, but as something quietly, tenderly their own.
