**A Home for Hope**
Oliver had always looked up to his older brother, taking cues from him even as a child. If James ate peas, Oliver would choke them down, though he hated them. If James dashed outside without a hat in the cold, Oliver would rip his off too. Their mum would scold James—put it back on, or Oliver will catch a chill!
The six-year gap between them might as well have been a lifetime. Why couldn’t she have had him just two or three years sooner? James would go out with his mates, never letting Oliver tag along.
“You’re not my responsibility. The lads would take the mickey,” James would say dismissively. Oliver would sob.
“Pack it in, or I won’t draw with you anymore.”
And just like that, Oliver would fall silent, as if switched off.
James was brilliant at drawing. Oliver would watch, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil flew across the page. When he tried himself, it was just scribbles. Then James 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 Oliver’s life.
Of course, they fought—sometimes even came to blows. James would thump him, and Oliver, helpless, would retaliate by hiding his pencils or doodling moustaches on his sketches. James would cuff him round the ear, calling him “shrimp” or “runt,” which Oliver loathed.
Once, though, James took him along to the park where the local lads hung out. They skulked behind bushes, smoking.
“Tell Mum and Dad, and I’ll throttle you,” James warned, spitting through his teeth. Oliver had no doubt he meant it. Even when James was rough, Oliver never snitched.
At school, nobody messed with Oliver—they knew he was James’s brother. James wasn’t a troublemaker, but he was tough. He did boxing, fought hard. Few could match him.
Oliver begged their mum to let him join the same club, but like drawing, he was hopeless. He hated fighting. Soon, he quit, conceding defeat. He stopped trying to be like James and threw himself into studying—where, at last, he outshone his brother.
James swung a mean fist but scraped by in class. After school, he went to a polytechnic for construction. His sketches started featuring the same girl over and over. Nothing special, Oliver thought.
Now James had his own life, and Oliver, still at school, wasn’t part of it. James came home late, distracted, quiet.
Once, Oliver found a poem in his brother’s notebook. He knew at once who it was for—that girl from the drawings.
“Why not someone like Emily Bright?” Oliver remarked later. “She’s the prettiest in our year—no, the whole school. *She’s* worth drawing poems for.” Then he quoted a line from James’s verse.
The punch came out of nowhere. Oliver hit the floor, his cheek burning like hot iron.
“What happened? Fighting again?” Mum eyed him at dinner.
James snorted, shovelling in spaghetti bolognese like nothing had happened.
“Slipped. Smacked my face on the pavement,” Oliver muttered through gritted teeth.
Mum shot James a look. He just shrugged. She wrapped frozen mince in a tea towel and handed it to Oliver.
“Hold that to your cheek.”
In his final year, James announced he was getting married and bringing his fiancée home on Sunday.
“Ha! The groom,” Oliver scoffed.
“You got a problem?” James glared, fist tightening. Oliver shut up—he wasn’t risking another broken tooth.
“Nah, just chuffed. You won’t be living here, right? Means I get the room to myself. Finally, no more of your snoring.”
James relaxed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lucky you, little brother.”
Hope was sweet and pretty, with warm hazel eyes, a button nose, and curly chestnut hair. She clung to James’s arm, answering his parents’ questions brightly. It was obvious she adored him. Oliver felt a pang—James was *his* brother. Who was this Hope?
At dinner, Oliver stole glances at her. And the more he looked, the more he liked what he saw.
“Don’t stare at your brother’s girl,” Mum chided after James left to walk Hope home.
“Like I care. I’ll find someone better,” Oliver sniffed.
After the wedding, James moved in with Hope and her mum. He rarely visited home. He’d grown up overnight. After graduation, he got a job with the biggest construction firm in Manchester. A year later, their son, Max, was born. Their tiny flat cramped, James started building a house—designing it himself, brick by brick, with mates helping and Dad chipping in.
Oliver, meanwhile, finished school and broke tradition by studying law at university. “Building’s for losers,” he sneered. “Clever people work with their heads, not their hands.”
Once, Mum sent Oliver to take clothes for Max to James’s place. Hope had softened into a beautiful woman. Flushing, Oliver mumbled something as he handed her the bag.
“Come in,” she laughed, tugging him inside. “James is away, and the washing line snapped in the bathroom. Fix it? He won’t be back till Friday, and I’ve got laundry piling up.”
So Oliver fixed the line. Then Hope handed him Max and bustled about making tea. The boy studied him solemnly before nestling against his chest. Oliver’s heart lurched. It felt good, holding him, watching Hope fuss over him.
For the first time, he saw Hope through James’s eyes. And he was lost. She haunted his dreams—strolling by the pond, feeding ducks…
Oliver dated, even went out with Emily Bright. But she seemed shallow, selfish, like the rest.
Three years passed in quiet torment. He caught Mum’s reproachful looks but couldn’t help himself.
Once, taking a flirty call in the kitchen, he saw Hope turn away. *Good.* Let her wonder. He knew she felt it too. But saying it aloud? Too risky.
Until one day, he dared.
“James is gone. And he’s not coming back. Can’t you see I love you? Being near you and not touching you—it’s torture. You feel it too. I *know* you do.”
“You’re kind, Oliver. But this… living together… it was too soon.”
“Why? Aren’t you happy here? Mum watches Max, you’re free—”
“You look like him, but you’re not *him*. Find someone your own age.”
“Age? Four years is nothing. I don’t *want* anyone else.” He reached for her. She flinched, fled.
Hope dodged all talks, hiding behind Max.
A month later, Oliver announced he’d landed a job at a top London firm.
“Is this because of Hope?” Mum asked.
“If I don’t see her, I’ll forget. I’ll *try*.”
But six months on, he was back for Dad’s funeral. Max barrelled into him. Oliver scooped him up.
“You’re getting heavy, mate.” Then he saw Hope.
“It’s good to see you,” she said quietly.
His heart surged. Words clogged his throat. He set Max down and approached her.
“I meant to move back with Mum, but then your dad fell ill, so I stayed, and now—”
“Thank you. For being here.”
That was all.
Later, to lighten the mood, Oliver brought up schools for Max.
“He starts soon. Decided where yet?”
“Not really,” Hope said.
“Friends recommended one—private, excellent.”
“Must be pricey.”
“I earn well now. Nothing’s too good for you two.”
A neighbour’s knock cut them off.
Next day, on the veranda, Oliver asked Max, “Remember your dad?”
“Not really. When I see photos, I *think* I do. Mum says you look like him. I wish you were my dad. Do you like her?”
“Bit young for this chat, mate. Yeah, I do. She loved your dad very much.”
“You’re nice too.” Oliver hugged him tight.
“I heard Mum and Gran talking. About you. Gran said you left because of her. Do you like Mum?”
“Not exactly. The job was too good. What did *she* say?” Oliver held his breath.
Hope answered from the doorway: “She said not to push. It’s not a good idea.”
Oliver stood. “Don’t rush her,” Mum said, appearing behind Hope. “But don’t wait forever. Everyone talks—you living together, walking as three. Max loves you like a father. And you two… I’m not blind. Who cares what people say? Your dad hoped for this.” She sighed and left.
Hope stared at her shoes.
“I leave in two days,” Oliver said, brushing past her.
“Wait.” She caught his arm. “Don’t go. *I’ll* move out. It’s better.”
As the years passed, the house James built echoed with laughter once more—this time from their little girl, her hair as chestnut as Hope’s, her smile as bright as the future they’d dared to choose together.
