The Extra Mouth
The kitchen was cramped, the table barely accommodating five—two adults and three children.
“Kevin, fetch the stool from the living room,” Mum said, glancing at her eldest.
Seventeen-year-old Kevin rolled his eyes but obeyed, dragging the stool back.
“There. We’ll shift the table. It’s fine, Maxie, just fine,” she murmured, not looking at the five-year-old who’d caused the chaos, her attention fixed instead on her husband, whose displeasure was carved into his stiff posture.
Laura served her husband first, ladling hot beef stew into his bowl. Bread and thick-cut bacon followed, then a head of garlic for her daughter to peel. Plates clattered into place. Kevin copied his father—tearing crusty brown bread, layering it with bacon, alternating bites with spoonfuls of stew. The garlic vanished between them, leaving the dish bare.
Max clutched his spoon but didn’t eat, watching the men from across the table. The plates were too far to reach.
“Eat,” ten-year-old Sophie nudged him, sliding bread and bacon his way.
Max snatched them up, chewing as if they were chocolate. Laura smiled faintly and picked up her own spoon.
Dad refused seconds. Kevin silently nodded. Sophie sprinkled salt on her bread. Tea was drunk in silence, eyes fixed on cups. Biscuits vanished quickly.
When dinner ended, Richard stood first.
“Kids eat first next time. We’ll manage after. Table’s too small.”
Laura froze, plate in hand, then said nothing. Kevin shot a glare at Max, who was nibbling a biscuit.
Yesterday, Dad had come home with the boy. The door swung open, and he nudged Max inside.
“Come on, Max,” Laura said, clutching a tea towel in the corridor.
It was clear—this had been discussed. Planned.
“Who’s that?” Kevin stepped out of his room, textbook in hand.
“This is Max,” Laura answered softly.
“Yeah, I heard his name. Who *is* he?”
Richard and Laura exchanged glances. They should’ve prepared the kids, but they hadn’t.
“Max is staying with us. We’ll fit a fold-out bed in your room.”
“*Our* room?” Sophie burst into the hallway.
Their shared space was already split by a wardrobe. A bed meant rearranging everything.
“You’ll manage.”
Richard’s authority wasn’t questioned. A look was enough.
Seven years ago, he’d left. A terrible row. Laura, usually calm, had sobbed, begged him not to abandon her with two small children. But Richard packed a single bag and walked out. He’d fallen for Antonia, a colleague at the factory. Nothing else mattered. Not even the kids.
Two years later, he returned. Same bag. No apologies. Just:
“If you filed for divorce, I’ll leave. It’s over there.”
Laura hadn’t replied. For months she’d waited—ached—for this moment. And now? She had no words. She’d forgiven him long ago.
A year passed, tense and cold, before Richard finally explained, finally asked for forgiveness. Laura thawed. Life resumed—almost. Then Max arrived.
Antonia wasn’t ill. She just didn’t want a child. He was in the way. She’d only had him for the council flat.
“Take him or I’ll send him to care,” she told Richard when he visited.
“Where? We’re four in a two-bed!”
“Not my problem. You didn’t ask when I had him.”
“I thought you loved me. Wanted Max.”
She laughed. “Take him by the first, or he’s gone.”
She was bluffing—knew Richard wouldn’t let it happen.
Laura agreed instantly. No hesitation. She never treated the children differently, loved them all the same.
Time passed. A bigger table was bought. Sophie got a corner of the lounge, freeing space for the boys. Kevin went to uni. Max started school.
But Kevin’s resentment festered. Blood ties meant nothing. He called Max *”The Extra Mouth”*—sneering, spiteful. When parents were out, he’d torment the boy, frame him for mischief.
Once, after lectures, Kevin ate two beef patties at lunch—knowing there was one each.
That evening, Laura heated leftovers.
“Who took an extra patty?”
“Max did. Sophie saw,” Kevin lied smoothly.
Sophie nodded—she *had* seen Max eat one.
“I had *one*,” Max insisted.
“Just one? I said save one for dinner.”
“Yes. Kevin took mine. Like last time.”
Laura didn’t look at Kevin. She placed her plate in front of Max.
“Read somewhere an extra mouth’s worse than a gun,” Kevin muttered.
Richard slammed the table, stood, snatched Kevin’s plate. He stared—long, hard—then gave it to Laura, shoving hers at Kevin.
“Only one extra mouth here. Yours. Twenty years old, leeching off us. Work if you’re hungry.”
Max stared at his plate.
Richard stormed out. Kevin fled. Sophie sipped tea.
Laura flinched, reaching for Max—then saw tears hitting his food.
“You’ll salt the beef. No one’ll want it.”
“I can’t eat it—”
“You must. It’s yours. Take what’s yours. Be grateful. A man needs strength to think, to work.”
***
By summer, Max walked home alone.
Kevin spotted him after class—four boys tossing a bag, Max scrambling between them. A girl stood apart, face hidden.
Kevin smirked, walked on—then froze as kicks landed.
He sprinted back, hauled two boys up by their collars.
“Ganging up, eh? I’ll wring you like lemons!” He didn’t look at Max. Couldn’t. Fear—new, sharp—cut through him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“This is my brother. Touch him again, I’ll make *lemonade*.”
The bullies fled. Kevin crouched.
“Up. Your face?”
“I covered it. They got my bag.”
He pointed to the girl. She took her things silently.
“Know her?”
“No.”
“Why fight four?”
“Girls need protecting. Any age.”
Kevin almost smiled. Dad had said that.
“Right. Come on. Mum’ll kill you—look at your uniform.”
They walked in silence, Kevin glancing at Max wiping dirt off his blazer.
“What you said back there…” Max stopped.
“What?”
“You called me… your brother. Usually you just—”
“Aren’t you?”
Max nodded.
“Then we’re good, Max. Friends?” He held out his hand.
Max spat on his palm before shaking. Kevin laughed but didn’t wipe his hand.
“Help me with maths? Promised Mum I’d get top marks.”
“Struggling?”
“A bit.”
“I’ll help.”
Next year, Max aced every test—under Kevin’s watch.
Kevin moved out—or tried. Balancing work and rent was impossible. But he paid his share.
The patty incident had been lesson enough.
No more torment. Just brothers.
