Two Brothers, or How Life Put Everything in Its Place
When Andrew was little, he never thought much about not having a father. His mum’s love was enough. But by secondary school, the lads started competing—whose dad had the flashiest car, whose mobile was pricier. Andrew stayed quiet. What could he brag about? He and his mum didn’t even own a car, and his phone was bog standard. His mum worked as a GP, and her social life consisted of elderly patients rather than glamorous friends.
One day after school, Andrew asked her about his dad.
“You don’t remember him? When you were three, he found someone else. I couldn’t forgive him for cheating. Long story short, we divorced, and he moved in with her. At first, he’d visit, bring you little gifts—nothing fancy. Then they had a child of their own…” His mum sighed.
Her eyes turned sad, and Andrew decided not to push it. What was the point? If his dad didn’t want him, he didn’t need him either. At least he had the best mum—young, beautiful, well-liked. Everyone in their town knew her. Andrew was proud of her.
Then a man entered her life. She’d often be out in the evenings or weekends—off to a friend’s birthday, or visiting, or dealing with “difficult patients.” That’s what she said. But Andrew wasn’t a child anymore. You don’t dress up in your best and douse yourself in perfume for house calls. She’d come home with flowers, glowing.
One evening, as she fussed in front of the mirror before a date, Andrew blurted out, “Mum, is this a date? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Caught off guard, she froze. Then she turned to him, cheeks pink, eyes guilty.
“I-I don’t know how to explain—you’ll always be the most important to me, but—”
“You don’t need to. I get it. Is it serious? Are you marrying him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Unless… you’re against it?”
“Nah. But I’m used to it being just us. If you marry him, I’m not calling him Dad,” Andrew said firmly.
“He’s a good man. I’ve wanted you to meet him for ages, just didn’t know how.”
“Fine. Bring him round.”
“Thank you.” She hugged him. “You really are grown-up. How about Sunday?”
He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent. He wanted to say he didn’t want to share her, that they didn’t need anyone else—but she kept thanking him, whispering how proud she was. So he stayed quiet.
Sunday came. His mum styled her hair differently, slipped into a smart dress, and blushed as she set the table. Andrew hadn’t seen her like this in years. The flat smelled of roast beef and her perfume. The only sour note? She’d done this for a stranger, not him.
He’d pictured a tall, handsome bloke, worthy of her. Instead, a stocky, balding man arrived—older, shorter than her in heels. He shook Andrew’s hand firmly. “Henry Whitmore.”
“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” his beaming mum said.
Andrew braced for dreary small talk—school grades, how “education isn’t what it used to be”—like most adults did.
But Henry raved about the food, gazed at his mum like she’d hung the moon. Asked what games Andrew played, which action films were good. Andrew talked; Henry listened—actually listened. No interruptions, just questions.
Two weeks later, Henry moved in. His mum explained that after his divorce, he’d got stuck with a room in a shared house. Andrew didn’t even know those still existed.
Seeing a stranger’s razor and toothbrush in the bathroom, it hit him: this was permanent. He’d have to share his mum. At night, muffled whispers and laughter seeped through her bedroom door. He pulled the duvet over his head.
In Year 11, his mum—blushing like a schoolgirl—announced she was pregnant. Andrew didn’t cheer. He’d be the older brother now. Less loved. He just muttered, “If you’re doing this, make it a brother.” What else could he say? He blamed Henry. Their peaceful life was wrecked, and he was powerless.
“You’re jealous?” Henry tried. “Don’t be angry. I didn’t push her. She wanted this. She’s still young, and you’re nearly grown—”
Why should *he* understand? Did anyone ask *him*? Fine, she married him. Now she’d waddle around like a whale. He dreaded his mates’ reactions. Turned out, nobody cared. So he relaxed—until the birth.
It was rough. Next day, Henry came to his room, grim-faced. “You’ve got a brother. Benjamin.”
“You wanted a girl?”
“It’s… not that. He’s unwell. Doctors think cerebral palsy. You know what that is?”
“He’s… disabled?” Andrew gaped.
“Not mentally. His spine’s affected—mobility issues. How bad, we don’t know yet. But you should know. Your mum… she’s in denial. Just… be there for her.”
“Can’t you… leave him at the hospital?”
“She’d never. She thinks he’ll outgrow it.”
Ben was colicky, only slept in Mum’s arms. Andrew dragged himself to school exhausted, resenting her. They’d been *fine*. Why’d she need another kid? Resented Henry too—none of this would’ve happened without him.
Diagnosis confirmed. Meds, physio—Henry earned well, but it wasn’t enough. Sold his room in the shared house, took extra shifts. The two-bed flat felt cramped.
Andrew decided: after A-levels, he’d study far away. When he told them, his mum barely reacted—too wrapped up in Ben. Henry promised financial help. At the station, he hugged Andrew like a father. Andrew’s eyes stung. Henry *had* become his dad. But he couldn’t say it.
He left without looking back. Felt unnecessary. Henry called more than Mum—always with updates on Ben’s progress. Andrew barely listened, cutting him short with “uni work.”
New Year’s Eve. Mum called, sobbing. He braced for news about Ben. Instead: “Henry’s dead. Heart attack. Come home.”
A grim New Year—funeral wreaths, not tinsel. A wake instead of party food.
Just months apart, but his mum had aged, streaks of grey in her hair. “How will I manage alone?” she wept.
He pitied her—and didn’t. Her fault. Shouldn’t have had Ben. To him, Ben wasn’t family. Yet Ben grinned, showed him drawings and toys, toddled on a frame. Andrew helped with the funeral, then bolted back to uni—”exams.”
Without Henry’s income, he scraped by, hungry, simmering with rage at his mum. Summer exams done, he got a job. Didn’t visit. Couldn’t face her hollow eyes.
Final year, he married. Didn’t invite Mum. Lied to in-laws: “Grieving her late husband. No one to watch my brother.” Never mentioned Ben’s condition.
Called her after. “No wedding, just a registry office. We’ll visit soon.” She cried but said she understood.
He forgot his promise. New job, new life—no time. Never forgave her. All *her* fault.
Years passed. Rare calls—birthdays, holidays. Mum sent Ben’s greetings, never complained. Said Ben learned coding, even earned money.
Ben’s birth and Andrew’s jealousy made him swear off kids. His wife didn’t mind. They bought a posh car, a bigger flat, holidays abroad. His old life? Erased.
Then Mum’s number flashed—but a man answered. Ben. “Mum’s gone. Cancer. Funeral’s Wednesday. Come if you can.”
Andrew froze. *Ben—an adult? How long’s it been?*
“Why? She wasn’t old.” (He’d forgotten her age.)
Ben hung up.
Andrew packed at once. His wife offered to come. He refused. Ashamed. Years of lies.
Ben answered the door—a striking 17-year-old, if you ignored his twisted legs. “You’re here!” He hugged Andrew. “Come in.”
Andrew followed, avoiding staring at the awkward gait. The flat shocked him—new furniture, fresh paint.
“You sent that amazing PC. Couldn’t have done it without you,” Ben said.
Andrew said nothing. *Mum’s doing.* But how?
Later, Ben said, “Mum hid her cancer. Only told me at the end.”
After the funeral, Andrew left fast, promising to return in nine days. Didn’t happen.
That night, rain hammered down. Windscreen wipers struggled. Headlights blinded him. Next thing—heAnd as Andrew lay in that hospital bed, his body broken but his heart finally opening, he realized life hadn’t just rearranged the pieces—it had given him a second chance to love the family he’d spent so long running from.
