Two Brothers, and How Life Set Things Right
When Andrew was little, he never thought much about not having a father. His mother’s love was enough. But in secondary school, the boys started competing—whose dad had the flashiest car, whose phone was the most expensive. Andrew stayed quiet. What could he brag about? He and his mum didn’t own a car, and his phone was just a basic one. His mother worked as a GP at the local clinic—no fancy connections, just elderly patients.
One day after school, Andrew asked her about his father.
“Don’t you remember him? When you were three, he found someone else. I couldn’t forgive him for it. We divorced, and he moved in with her. At first, he came by with gifts—nothing fancy. Then they had a child…” His mother sighed.
Her eyes turned sad, and Andrew decided not to ask again. Why bother? If his father didn’t care, then he didn’t need him either. At least he had the best mum—young, beautiful, well-liked in their town. People always greeted her warmly. He was proud of her.
Then, a man entered her life. She started going out in the evenings and weekends—birthdays, visits, or late-night patient calls, or so she claimed. But Andrew wasn’t a child anymore. Patients didn’t require her to wear nice dresses and perfume. She came home with flowers, smiling, eyes bright.
One evening, as she prepped for a date, humming before the mirror, Andrew asked bluntly,
“Mum, are you seeing someone?”
Caught off guard, she froze. Then she turned to him. Her cheeks flushed, her gaze guilty.
“I don’t know how to explain… You’ll always come first for me. But—”
“Don’t. I get it. Is it serious? Will you marry him?”
“I’m not sure yet. Are you against it?”
“No. But I’m used to just us. If you do, I won’t call him Dad.”
“He’s kind. I wanted you to meet him—I just didn’t know how.”
Andrew sighed. “Fine. Let him come.”
“Thank you.” She hugged him. “You really are grown up. How about Sunday?”
Andrew held her tight, breathing in her familiar scent. He wanted to say he didn’t want to share her—that they didn’t need anyone. But she kept thanking him, whispering how proud she was, so he stayed silent.
On Sunday, she styled her hair, wore her best dress, and set the table with care. The flat smelled of roast and her perfume. What stung was that none of this was for him—it was for a stranger.
He’d imagined someone tall, handsome. Instead, a balding, middle-aged man arrived—shorter than her in heels. He shook Andrew’s hand firmly and introduced himself as William Carter.
“Shall we eat before it gets cold?” his mother beamed.
Andrew braced for nosy questions about school, but William just complimented her cooking, listened to Andrew’s gaming talk, and asked about new films—no interruptions, no lectures. The man knew how to listen.
Two weeks later, William moved in. His mother explained he’d had a tiny flat after his divorce. Andrew hadn’t known such places still existed.
Seeing a stranger’s razor in their bathroom, it hit him: this man was staying. His life would never be the same. At night, whispers and muffled laughter seeped from her room. He pulled the duvet over his head.
In Year 10, his mother—blushing like a schoolgirl—said she was pregnant. Andrew didn’t celebrate. He’d be the older, less-loved child now. He muttered he’d prefer a brother and blamed William. Their peaceful world had shattered.
“Are you jealous? Don’t be angry. I didn’t push her. She wanted this,” William tried.
Why should *he* understand? No one had asked *him*. Fine, she’d remarry, then waddle around pregnant. What would his friends think? But no one cared. He relaxed—until the birth.
Complications. The next day, William walked in, grim.
“You have a brother. But… he’s not entirely healthy.”
“Cerebral palsy. Spine and motor issues. We don’t know how severe yet. Your mum’s in denial. Be there for her?”
“Can’t you… leave him at the hospital?”
“She won’t. She thinks he’ll be fine.”
Baby Timothy—”Timmy”—was restless, only sleeping in her arms. Andrew dragged himself to school exhausted, resenting her. They’d been fine—why another child?
The diagnosis stuck. Medications, physio. William earned well, but funds ran low. He sold his flat, took extra shifts. Their small house felt suffocating.
Andrew decided to leave for uni after school. When he told them, his mother barely reacted—too wrapped up in Timmy. William understood, promising financial help. At the station, he hugged Andrew like a father. Andrew’s eyes prickled. Strange—he never called him Dad.
He left without regret, feeling unneeded. William called more than his mother, updating him on Timmy’s progress. Andrew tuned out, cutting calls short with “studies.”
Then, a call—his mother, crying. William was dead. A heart attack.
The funeral replaced New Year’s celebrations. His mother had aged, hair streaked grey. “How will I manage alone?” she wept.
He pitied her—and didn’t. *Her choice.* Timmy, now Boris, grinned, showing him drawings. Andrew helped with arrangements, then fled to uni early.
Without William’s support, he struggled—skipping meals, blaming her. He worked summers, never visiting.
At uni, he married. Didn’t invite her. Lied to his in-laws: “She’s grieving. No one to watch Timmy.”
He called her later, made excuses. She cried but said she understood. He forgot his promise to visit—too busy with work, life.
Years passed. Rare calls—birthdays, holidays. She mentioned Boris was earning from coding.
Then, her number flashed—but Boris spoke.
“Mum’s gone. Cancer. Funeral Wednesday.”
Andrew drove straight there. His wife offered to come, but he refused—ashamed of his lies. Boris opened the door—a handsome teen, if you ignored his uneven gait.
“You came.” Boris hugged him.
The flat was refurbished. “I earn well,” Boris said, pointing to a high-end PC. “Your gift helped.”
Andrew stayed silent. *Mum’s doing.* How’d she afford it?
After the funeral, Andrew left fast, promising to return. But rain blinded him driving home. A crash.
He woke in hospital. No feeling in his legs. The doctor said spinal damage. Possible recovery—with time, rehab, *faith*.
Faith? Andrew spiralled. His wife visited twice, then vanished. He didn’t blame her.
One night, he crawled toward the window. Before he could climb, a nurse stopped him.
At discharge, the doctor asked about family. “None,” Andrew lied.
Then—Boris, waiting downstairs with his fiancée, Lydia.
They took him home. Boris had contacted German specialists. “You’ll walk again.”
“How?”
“I earn well. Just believe.”
Andrew scoffed. “Why not fix yourself?”
“My case is different. This is your chance.”
The surgery worked. Sensation returned. Boris hired physios, worked overtime to fund it.
The first day Andrew walked outside, he wept.
“I’m sorry. I was ashamed of you. Blamed Mum. Yet you saved me.”
Boris grinned. “We’re brothers. No debts.”
Life had flipped their roles. Now Andrew had to relearn walking—and forgive himself.
*Why do people hurt others, not fearing the rebound? Like a spring—press it hard enough, and it strikes back harder.*
