Uncle Micky was a right laugh—clumsy as a puppy, short and a bit round, with curly hair and little blue eyes like sweets behind his glasses. His face always had this kid-like joy to it, all innocent and bright.
Liam was scared of men. At six, he’d flinch at deep voices or loud laughter. If a bloke held out a hand to him like grown-ups do, he’d duck behind his mum straight away.
“Sophie! What’s with your little guard dog being so timid?” people’d tease.
Liam wasn’t timid, though. He once stood up to three lads who nicked his neighbour Evie’s football. Just planted himself in front of her and said, clear as day, “Leave her alone. She’s a girl. You’ll have me to deal with.” And they walked off.
“Load of cheek from a scrap like him!” was all they muttered.
Evie took his hand after and said, “Let’s be mates!”
And when a kitten got stuck up a tree, Liam was the one who climbed after it—till his mum spotted from the window, ran out, and got the neighbours to fetch them both down. They kept the kitten, named her Daisy.
At nursery, Liam was brave, sharp as a tack. The teachers held him up as an example. But men still terrified him.
Started when he was two. His dad—tall, dark, and handsome, the sort blokes wanted to be and women turned to look at—shouted and swung at his mum. Liam never remembered a single hug, never heard “It’s alright, mate” from him.
“Stop whingeing! Boys don’t cry. Grow a spine. No bedtime stories—sleep in the dark. Stuffed toy? Don’t be a girl. Broke your ship? That’s it, no more toys—clumsy git. Piss off outside. Shut up.” That’s the man he loved most in the world.
Later, he learnt he’d been an “accident.” Dad never wanted to marry Mum—his parents made him.
“He loves you, Liam. Maybe he’ll understand one day. That’s just how he is,” Mum’d say, stroking his hair.
Time passed. Nothing changed.
“Should’ve waited till I wanted a kid. But no, you had to play saint. And look what we got—this snivelling little mouse,” Dad spat.
Nothing about Liam pleased him. So Liam got used to it. Dad was rarely home. Then he left for good. Said he’d send money but didn’t want to see the boy. “Not the son I wanted. Maybe someday.”
Mum was pretty—long honey-blonde hair, big eyes. To Liam, she was a fairy. Worked herself to the bone.
Then one day, she brought home Uncle Micky—her boss from work. He’d offered her a lift when she was lugging shopping bags.
“Alright, champ? I’m Uncle Micky. Popped in. If it’s a bad time, no worries. Brought you some cake. And this model plane—old one, my grandad gave it. Your mum said you like gadgets. And this stuffed rabbit—fluffy, ain’t he? Proper lifelike.”
His voice was soft, quiet. He shuffled awkwardly in the doorway. Liam stood frozen, scared.
“Don’t worry, Sophie. I’ll head off. Lad wants time with you,” Uncle Micky said, setting the bags down.
He waddled a bit, like a penguin. Liam couldn’t help a smile. Then he bolted forward.
“Don’t go!”
Uncle Micky lifted him up. Smelled like cologne, warm bread, and home.
“Look at you! Proper little heartbreaker, this one! Sophie, he’s a right gem!”
After that, he visited often. Sat on the floor in his suit to play with Liam. Read him books. Cooked when Mum was knackered—made proper roasts, pies, the lot. Liam’s dad never lifted a finger. “Not a man’s job,” he’d sneer.
“Why d’you cook, Uncle Micky?” Liam once asked.
“Love it, mate. Big family—I’m the eldest. Had to feed the lot. Plus, it’s nice, innit? Making stuff for people you love. Your mum’s tired—let her rest.”
“But you’re tired too. You worked.”
“Ah, I’m tough as boots. Summer, we’ll go to my allotment. Got frogs in the pond. Show you. Pick flowers for your mum—daisies!” He hugged Liam tight.
The boy clung to him. More than anything, he never wanted Uncle Micky to leave.
A month later, they bumped into Liam’s dad—drunk, with some woman.
“Who’s this? Swapped me for this mug, Soph? Couldn’t do better?” Dad jeered. His mate cackled.
Uncle Micky stayed quiet.
“Dad, this is Uncle Micky. Don’t call him names!” Liam said.
“What? Got a voice now, runt?” Dad grabbed Uncle Micky’s collar.
“No! Dad, please!” Liam yanked at his leg.
After that, Dad’s parents took Liam more—slagged off Mum, called Uncle Micky “nothing.”
Liam tried talking to Uncle Micky about it.
“They’re right, son. He’s your dad—got to respect that. Maybe if I weren’t around…”
“No! Don’t go!”
Liam grew up. Home was warm, safe. Uncle Micky was always fixing, cooking, teaching him woodwork. Bought a car, let Liam “drive” on his lap. Often told Mum, “You rest, Sophie. I’ve got it.”
Once, neighbours muttered outside:
“Lovely boy. Wonder who he takes after? Not that odd bloke she’s with.”
“Not his dad. Proper looker, that one. Shame she downgraded to that frumpy little busybody.”
“Liar! Uncle Micky’s the best! Shut up!” Liam yelled.
Uncle Micky just shrugged. “Can’t blame ‘em, lad. That’s how I look.”
Mum’s parents weren’t keen either. “His real dad’s a stunner—why’s she with this dowdy little bloke?” Never mind that Uncle Micky was kind, sharp, a hard worker.
Years on, walking with Evie, Liam said:
“Love my stepdad more than my real dad. Hate that bloke. Family’ll never forgive me.”
“Liam, forgive them. Doesn’t matter. Uncle Micky’s ace.”
When Liam graduated, aiming to be a naval captain, he wanted to make Mum and Uncle Micky proud.
Then—a call. Uncle Micky was ill.
Liam rushed home. Big, strong, handsome now—but he sobbed in the hospital corridor.
“Just live, yeah? Please.”
He ran up the stairs three at a time. The man in the bed—was that Uncle Micky? He’d been solid, warm. This frail old bloke—him?
A thin hand lifted. Eyes opened—the same light that’d wrapped Liam all his life. He dropped to his knees, hugged him.
“Dad! Dad, you’ve got to stay! Need you! I’ll take you on my ship, like I promised!”
Uncle Micky always said Liam had one dad. Never asked to be called it. But his face—pure joy. He’d waited.
“Make peace with your dad, Liam. However he was, he’s your blood. Promise? And look after your mum. My little stars. Thank you—for letting me be part of it.”
“Thank you. For everything,” Liam wept.
He made peace with his dad. The man marveled at him, apologised, begged him to visit.
“I will. We’ll catch up,” Liam said.
Now, back from sea, he picks daisies and goes where Uncle Micky rests. Watches clouds, remembers the pond, the frog. Holds the torch they built together.
“You light that torch, son. Even if you can’t see me, I’ll be there. Right beside you, my golden boy,” Uncle Micky had said.
Liam whispers to the dark sky:
“I lit it, Dad. Come on. I’m waiting.”
