*Extra Mouth*
They had to squeeze in around the table. The tiny kitchen barely fit five people—two adults and three kids.
“Connor, grab the stool from the living room,” Mum said.
The seventeen-year-old rolled his eyes but obeyed, dragging the stool back with him.
“Here. We’ll shift the table a bit—it’ll be fine, Max, love,” she said, not even looking at the five-year-old who’d caused all this fuss. Instead, she turned to her husband, who was making no effort to hide his irritation at the re-shuffling.
Megan served her husband, Liam, first—a steaming bowl of beef stew. She quickly sliced bread and cheese, handing a clove of garlic to Sophie to peel. Soon, the table was set.
Their oldest, Connor, copied his dad—spreading a thin layer of smoked cheese on brown bread between spoonfuls of stew. The garlic was gone in minutes, leaving the little dish empty.
Max clutched his spoon but didn’t eat. He watched the two men across from him, desperate to imitate them—but the plates were too far.
“Eat,” ten-year-old Sophie whispered, passing him bread and a slice of cheese.
He grabbed them and chewed like it was chocolate. Megan smiled and finally picked up her own spoon.
Liam refused seconds. Connor just nodded. Sophie asked for salt to sprinkle on her bread. They drank tea in silence, eyes fixed on their mugs. The biscuits disappeared quickly—everyone was in a hurry.
When dinner ended, Liam stood first. “Kids eat first next time. This table’s too small.”
Megan paused, plate in hand, but stayed quiet. Connor glared at Max stuffing his face with a biscuit.
Yesterday, Liam had come home with an extra passenger—a little boy he nudged inside.
“Come in, Max,” Megan said from the hallway, towel in hand.
It was obvious they’d talked about this. For them, bringing Max home was deliberate.
“Who’s *that*?” Connor asked, stepping out with a textbook.
“This is Max,” Megan said gently.
“I heard his name. *Who is he?*”
Liam and Megan hadn’t prepped for this. They should’ve told the kids—just hadn’t thought it mattered.
“Max is staying with us. We’ll fit a fold-out bed in your room.”
“In *our* room?” Sophie burst in.
Their tiny space was already split by a wardrobe. Where a new bed would fit, neither could picture.
“You’ll manage.”
Their dad’s authority was ironclad. A single look was usually enough.
Seven years ago, Liam had walked out. A screaming match—Megan, normally calm, sobbing and begging him not to leave her with two little kids. But he’d packed one bag and gone. He’d fallen for Tanya, a coworker, and nothing else mattered.
Not even the kids could stop him.
Two years later, he returned—same bag. No apology. Just: *”If you filed for divorce, I’ll leave again. That’s final.”*
Megan couldn’t speak. She’d waited so long for this moment—but now, no words came. She’d already forgiven him. She just wanted to *see* him.
For nearly a year, they were like strangers. Then, finally, Liam apologized. Megan thawed. Things returned—almost—to normal.
Then Max arrived.
Tanya wasn’t sick. Nothing had happened. She just didn’t want a kid—he cramped her style. She’d only had him because the factory offered a flat to mothers.
“Take him, or I’ll send him to care,” she’d told Liam when he visited.
“Where? We’re four in a two-bed!”
“Not my problem. You didn’t ask where he’d go when I gave birth.”
“I thought you *wanted* Max!”
“Ha. *Thought*.” She shrugged. “You’ve got till the first. If he’s not gone by my day off, I’ll dump him.”
She was bluffing. She knew Liam adored his son—he’d never allow it.
And Megan? She agreed instantly. No hesitation. She never treated the kids differently—always gave each what they needed. Always loved them the same.
Time passed. They bought a bigger kitchen table. Cleared a corner of the living room for Sophie, freeing space for the boys. It worked—desk by the window, wardrobe-wall, bed on the other side.
Connor started uni. Max began school. By now, they should’ve blended. But Connor only grew resentful. Sharing blood didn’t matter. Mum stepped in gently—smoothing things, shielding Max. Sophie adored him instantly.
Max wasn’t deprived. He got clothes, toys, school prep—just like the others. Megan split everything fairly. Connor hated it. Behind their backs, he called Max *”Extra Mouth”*—sneering, dismissive. Without their parents, he took it further—setting Max up, blaming him for things he didn’t do.
One day, after lectures, Connor ate his lunch—cottage pie—then, smirking, took Max’s portion too. Megan had made exactly enough—one each. He *knew*.
That evening, she reheated the pie, boiled peas, and served dinner.
“Oi, who took an extra portion?”
“Max stole some at lunch—Soph saw!” Connor said gleefully.
Sophie nodded. She *had* seen him eating pie—just not *two*.
“Yeah, I ate one,” Max admitted.
“*Just* one? I told you all to save a portion for dinner.”
“Yeah,” Max said firmly. “Connor’s lying. Like last time.”
Megan didn’t even glance at Connor. She handed Max his plate.
“Read somewhere that an *extra mouth* is worse than a pistol. True, Mum?”
Liam slammed the table, stood, and snatched Connor’s plate. He held it for a long moment, gaze burning into his son. Then he gave Megan’s to Connor, and Connor’s to Megan.
“There’s *one* extra mouth here. *Yours.* You’re twenty, still leeching off us. Want food? Get a job. *Done.*”
Max stared at his plate, tears falling.
Liam didn’t sit. He stormed out—muttering, then onto the balcony.
Connor grabbed his jacket and fled. Sophie pretended to drink tea.
Megan reached to comfort Max—then saw his tears hitting his food.
“Don’t salt the pie. No one’ll want it.”
“I… can’t eat it.”
“You *will*. It’s yours. Take what’s yours—gratefully. Especially food. Men eat *before* they work and think.”
***
By summer term, Max walked home alone—no longer waiting for Sophie.
That day, Connor finished early and passed the school. He spotted Max straight away—four Year 6 boys tossing a backpack, Max scrambling between them. A girl stood nearby, hands over her face.
Connor smirked, walked on—then froze. Max was on the ground now, being kicked.
He sprinted over, grabbed two boys by their collars, lifting them mid-air. The others froze.
“Ganging up, eh? I’ll wring you like lemons!” He avoided looking at Max—*terrified*, for once in his life. Not for himself.
“Max. You good?”
“Yeah,” came a small voice.
“Right. This is *my* brother. Mess with him again, I’ll turn you into lemonade.”
The boys bolted. Connor crouched.
“Up. Face okay?”
“Used my bag. It was *her*.”
He pointed to the girl, who took her backpack silently.
“Know her?”
“No.”
“So why step in? They’re twice your size!”
“You *always* stand up for girls. Five or twenty-five—doesn’t matter.”
Connor almost laughed. Dad had said the same.
“Right. Come on. Mum’ll kill you for the uniform… Brush yourself off.”
They walked under the trees. Connor kept glancing at Max—wiping his nose, dusting dirt off his blazer.
“Why’d you say that?” Max suddenly stopped.
“What?”
“Calling me your brother. You usually—”
“*Aren’t* you?” Connor cut in.
Max nodded.
“Then we’re good. Truce?” He spat on his palm, offered it.
Connor laughed but shook it. “Need maths help? Promised Mum I’d be top set.”
“Struggling?”
“A bit.” Max shrugged.
“Got you. No problem.”
Next year, Max aced every exam—Connor tutoring him relentlessly.
Connor moved out—well, tried. Balancing work and rent was harder than he’d thought. Still, he chipped in for bills now.
The pie incident had been a turning point. No more jabs—just jokes, shared snacks, real brotherhood.
One lesson from Dad had been enough.
