**A Home for Hope**
Tom had always idolized his older brother, mimicking him since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. If Jack ate sprouts—despite hating them—Tom forced them down too. If Jack dashed outside without a jumper, Tom would yank his off in a flash. Mum would scold Jack to put his back on, or else Tom would catch a cold.
The six-year gap between them might as well have been a lifetime. Why couldn’t Mum have had him just a couple of years sooner? Jack went off with his mates, and little Tom was never invited.
“Not my job to babysit. The lads’d take the mick,” Jack would say dismissively.
Tom would burst into tears.
“Pack it in, or no more drawing with you.”
And just like that, Tom would go quiet, as if someone had flicked a switch.
Jack was brilliant at drawing. Tom would watch, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil flew across the page. When Tom tried, his attempts were just scribbles. So Jack 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 Tom’s life.
Of course, they fought. Tom got the worst of it. In revenge, he’d hide Jack’s pencils or doodle moustaches on his sketches. Jack would cuff him round the ear and call him “shrimp” or “runt,” which Tom hated.
One day, though, Jack took Tom to the park where the local lads hung out, smoking behind the bushes.
“Snitch to Mum and Dad, and I’ll throttle you,” Jack warned, spitting through his teeth.
Tom didn’t doubt it. Even when Jack walloped him, he never told.
At school, no one messed with Tom—they knew he was Jack’s brother. Jack wasn’t a bully, but he was tough. He did boxing, fought till his knuckles bled. Few could match him.
Tom begged Mum to let him join the same club. But like drawing, he was hopeless. He hated fighting. Soon, he quit, finally admitting defeat. He stopped trying to be Jack and buried himself in schoolwork instead—where, for once, he outshone his brother.
Jack could throw a punch, but his grades were middling. After school, he went to polytechnic to study construction. His sketches started featuring the same girl over and over. Nothing special, in Tom’s opinion.
Now Jack had a student’s life, and there was no room for schoolboy Tom. He came home late, distracted, lost in thought.
One day, Tom found a poem in Jack’s notebook. It didn’t take a genius to guess who it was for—the girl from his drawings.
Tom remarked that Jack could do better.
“You should draw someone like Emily Bryant. Prettiest girl in our year. Heck, in the whole school. That’s who you should be writing poems for.” Then he quoted one of Jack’s lines.
Tom didn’t even see it coming. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor, his cheek burning like he’d been branded.
“What happened? Been scrapping again?” Mum frowned at dinner.
Jack snorted and kept wolfing down his bangers and mash like nothing had happened.
“Tripped. Face met the pavement,” Tom mumbled through gritted teeth. Talking hurt.
Mum gave Jack a sharp look. He just shrugged. She fetched a pack of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel and handed it to Tom.
“Hold that to your face.”
In his final year, Jack announced he was getting married. He’d bring his fiancée home at the weekend.
“Ooh, getting hitched!” Tom scoffed.
“Got a problem with that?” Jack shot him a dangerous glare.
Tom knew better than to push it—that first punch had left him sore for days.
“Nah, just chuffed. You’re not moving in here, right? So the room’s all mine. Brilliant. Finally won’t have to listen to your snoring. Hope you don’t chicken out.”
Jack relaxed, clapping Tom on the shoulder. “No chickening. Lucky you, little brother.”
Hope was lovely—bright hazel eyes, a pert nose, and curly chestnut hair that made her look like springtime. She held Jack’s hand tight and answered Mum and Dad’s questions with confidence. It was obvious she was head over heels. Tom was jealous. Jack was his hero. And this Hope…
At dinner, Tom stole glances at her. The more he looked, the more he liked her.
“Stop gawping at your brother’s girl,” Mum said after Jack left to walk Hope home.
“As if. I’ll find someone better,” Tom sniffed.
After the wedding, Jack moved in with Hope and her mum. He barely visited. He’d grown up overnight. After graduating, he got a job at the biggest construction firm in town. A year later, their son was born. The flat was cramped, so Jack started building a house. Designed it himself, built it himself. Friends pitched in. Dad approved, chipping in with cash.
By then, Tom had finished school. For once, he didn’t follow Jack—he went to uni, studying law. He scoffed that building was “for failures.” Smart people worked with their brains, not their hands.
Once, Mum sent Tom to drop off clothes for their nephew. Hope had softened, grown even prettier. Tom flushed and muttered something as he handed over the bag.
“Come in,” Hope laughed, tugging him inside. “Jack’s away on business, and the washing line snapped in the bathroom. Fix it? He won’t be back for days, and I’ve got laundry piling up.”
Tom restrung the line. Then Hope handed him the baby and set the table. The boy studied him seriously before snuggling into him. Tom’s heart wobbled. It felt nice—holding the baby, watching Hope fuss over him.
For the first time, he saw her through Jack’s eyes. And he was a goner. After that, she haunted his dreams. In them, the three of them fed ducks by the pond…
Tom dated, even Emily Bryant. But she struck him as daft and selfish, like the others.
Three days later, Hope called Mum, 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, shooting Dad a worried glance. “We’re coming over.”
“What’s happened?” Dad asked.
“Going to Hope’s. Jack didn’t come home. He should’ve been back this morning. She rang work—he never showed. Said he called when he got on the train. Then nothing. Phone’s off. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
But Hope had no news, just tears. Mum and Dad went to the police. They took a report but said they’d only start looking after three days. “Probably out on a bender,” they shrugged.
Next morning, they got the call. A body, matching Jack’s description, had been found outside town. Mum wailed, collapsing. Dad stayed with her; Tom went to identify him.
No doubt—it was Jack. Tom finally understood how much he loved his brother. He broke down, sobbing right there. The coroner said Jack had been stabbed, then thrown from the train. No witnesses, no leads. No phone, no wallet.
At the funeral, Hope stood frozen, staring at Jack in the coffin. She only cried when they lowered him into the ground.
The house was nearly done. Just finishing touches. Dad and Tom took over. Six months later, they all moved in—Hope wouldn’t go alone, and her mum wouldn’t leave her flat. There was room for everyone. They rented out her flat to cover debts.
Hope was sad, never smiling, even at her son. No one saw her cry—she must’ve done it at night.
Tom couldn’t sleep. How could he, when she was just through the wall? Sometimes she flinched when he spoke.
“Scared of me?” he asked once.
“Opposite. I want to touch you. Your voice… you look so like him.”
“So touch me,” Tom said, stepping closer.
She backed away, panic flashing in her eyes—not what he’d expected. They got on fine otherwise. She’d make him breakfast, iron his shirts. They’d walk with Max, who held his hand. But any hint of feeling, and she’d shut down.
Three years passed, torture for Tom. Mum’s reproachful looks didn’t help.
Sometimes girls called, and he’d lay on the charm, watching Hope leave the room. Testing if she’d react. And she did. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Until one day, he did.
“Jack’s 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 do it anymore. You feel it too. I know you do.”
“Tom, you’re sweet. But this whole living together idea… it was too soon.”
“Why?**”I know it was too soon,” Tom said softly, taking her hand, “but isn’t love always?”**
