**Uncle Mike, My Stepdad**
Uncle Mike was a funny bloke. Clumsy as a bear cub—short, round, and curly-haired. His eyes were small, blue and clear like boiled sweets, always twinkling behind his glasses. His face had this childlike expression, full of joy and innocence.
Jack had always been wary of men. Loud voices, laughter, even a handshake made him flinch. At six years old, he’d duck behind his mum if a stranger tried to greet him.
“Emma! What’ve you raised—a little coward?” the neighbours would tease.
But Jack wasn’t a coward. He’d stood up to three lads who’d snatched their neighbour Lucy’s football, shielding her and saying, “Leave her alone! She’s a girl. You’ll deal with *me*.” And they’d backed off.
“Look at this little firebrand,” one muttered before walking away.
Lucy had taken his hand afterward, smiling. “Let’s be friends,” she’d said.
When their tabby cat, Whiskers, got stuck up a tree, Jack climbed after it without hesitation. His mum spotted him from the window, dashed out, and called the neighbours. They rescued both boy and cat. Whiskers stayed with them, becoming part of the family.
At nursery, Jack was brave, sharp, always praised. But men still unnerved him.
It had started when he was two. His dad—tall, handsome, strong—would shout, wave his fists at Mum. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, the sort men admired. But inside? Empty. Jack couldn’t recall a single hug, a kind word.
“Stop snivelling! Boys don’t cry. Sleep in the dark—no bedtime stories. And no stuffed toys—you’re not a girl! Broke your toy ship? That’s it—no more, clumsy hands. Clear off. Let me be.” Those were the words from the man he’d loved most.
Years later, he’d learn he’d been unwanted. Dad had never wanted to marry Mum—family pressure had done that.
“He *does* love you, Jack. Maybe in time… he’ll understand. It’s just how he is,” Mum would say, stroking his hair.
Time passed. Nothing changed.
“I told you to wait till *I* wanted a kid. Now look what we’ve got—this snivelling little weakling,” Dad would yell.
Nothing about Jack pleased him. Eventually, Dad left. “I’ll send money,” he said. “But I don’t want to see the boy. Not *this* one.”
Mum was lovely—honey-blonde, bright-eyed. To Jack, she was a mermaid. She worked hard.
Then one day, she brought home Uncle Mike—her boss from work. He’d offered her a lift, seeing her struggle with shopping bags.
“Hello, lad. I’m Uncle Mike. Popped by—hope it’s alright. Brought you some cakes. And this toy plane—my grandad gave it to me. Your mum said you liked gadgets. Oh, and a stuffed rabbit. Look—fluffy, eh? Like the real thing.” His voice was soft, gentle.
Jack stood silent, wary.
“Right, Emma. Best be off. Your boy wants time with you,” Uncle Mike said, setting the gifts down.
As he turned, swaying like that bear cub again, Jack surprised himself—lunging forward. “Don’t go!”
Uncle Mike lifted him, smelling of aftershave, warm bread, home. “What a handsome lad! Oh, you’ll break hearts one day! Emma, look at him—proper little charmer!”
After that, Uncle Mike visited often. He’d sit on the floor in his work suit, playing with Jack. Reading to him, cooking when Mum was tired. Soups, roast dinners, perfect pies—Dad had never lifted a ladle. “Not a man’s job,” he’d scoffed.
“Why do *you* cook, Uncle Mike?” Jack once asked.
“Love it, lad. Big family—had to feed the lot. Besides, it’s *fun*. Making things for people you love. Your mum works hard—let her rest.”
“But you work too,” Jack pointed out.
“Ah, I’m tough as boots. Come summer, we’ll go to my cottage—got frogs in the well. Catch fish, pick daisies for Mum!” He hugged Jack tight.
Jack clung to him. More than anything, he prayed Uncle Mike would never leave.
Then, one day, they bumped into Dad—drunk, arm slung round some woman.
“Who’s *this*? Found a replacement already, Emma? Couldn’t do better than this lump?” Dad sneered. His companion tittered.
Uncle Mike stayed quiet.
“Dad, this is Uncle Mike. Don’t be mean!” Jack said.
“What? Got a voice now, have you?” Dad grabbed Uncle Mike’s collar.
“No! Dad, please—*stop*!” Jack latched onto his leg.
After that, Dad’s parents took Jack more often, berating Mum. “He’s your *real* father. This Mike’s *nothing*.”
Jack tried talking to Uncle Mike.
“They’re right, son. He’s your dad—respect him. Maybe if I hadn’t come along… things could’ve mended.”
“No! They *wouldn’t*! Don’t go!”
As Jack grew, home became cosy. Uncle Mike fixed things, gardened, taught him woodwork. Let him “steer” his car. Neighbours whispered:
“Lovely boy—shame about the stepdad. Real father was a looker—what’s Emma doing with *him*?”
Jack rounded on them. “Stop it! Uncle Mike’s the *best*!”
Still, Mum’s parents disapproved. “Your ex was *handsome*—why shack up with this frumpy little man?” Never mind that Mike was kind, bright, reliable.
Years later, strolling with Lucy, Jack confessed: “I love my stepdad more than my real father. But my family won’t forgive me.”
“Then *you* forgive *them*,” Lucy said. “Uncle Mike’s lovely—that’s what matters.”
At university, Jack dreamt of captaining a ship—making Mum and Uncle Mike proud.
Then a telegram arrived: *Mike’s ill.*
Jack raced home, strong, tall—yet sobbing in the train corridor. “Just live—*please*.”
Uncle Mike had slipped into their lives quietly, filling them with love. Now, hospital stairs blurred as Jack ran.
The man in bed—frail, wasted—wasn’t the soft, sturdy Uncle Mike he knew. A thin hand rose. Those eyes—still warm, still *home*—opened.
Jack collapsed at the bedside. “Dad… *Dad*, stay with me! I’ll take you sailing—like I promised!”
Mike had always said Jack had only one father. Never asked to be called *Dad*. But the joy on his face—he’d *waited*.
“Make peace with your dad, Jack. However he was—he’s still yours. And look after your mum, eh? You two… you were my stars. Thank you… for letting me be part of it.”
“No—*thank you*,” Jack wept.
He did reconcile with Dad, who marvelled at his son, apologising endlessly.
“I’ll visit. We’ll make up for time,” Jack promised.
Now, returning from sea, he picks daisies, visits Mike’s grave. Holds the lantern they built together, watching clouds race by.
“You said to light it… so you’d find me. I’m lighting it, Dad. Come see me. I miss you.”
The night sky stays silent. But in his heart, Jack knows—he’s there.
**Lesson learnt:** Love isn’t blood. It’s who stays, who *chooses* you—even when the world says they shouldn’t.
