**Two Brothers, or How Life Set Things Right**
I never really thought about not having a father when I was little. Mum’s love was enough. But in secondary school, the lads started bragging—whose dad had the flashiest car, whose mobile was the newest. I kept quiet. What could I say? We didn’t even own a car, and my phone was the cheapest model. Mum worked as a GP in a clinic, and her circle wasn’t exactly glamorous—just pensioners and the odd patient.
One day after school, I asked Mum about my father.
*”Don’t you remember him? When you were three, he took up with another woman. I couldn’t forgive that. We divorced, and he left—moved in with her. For a while, he’d visit, bring you cheap little gifts. Then they had a child…”* She sighed.
Her eyes went sad, and I decided not to ask again. Why bother? If he didn’t need me, I didn’t need him either. Besides, I had the best mum—young, pretty, everyone in town knew her. I was proud of her.
Then Mum started seeing someone. She’d go out in the evenings, dressed up, saying it was a birthday do or some emergency at work. But I wasn’t a child anymore. Doctors don’t wear perfume and heels to see patients. She’d come home with flowers, smiling, her eyes bright.
One night, as she fixed her hair in the mirror, humming, I asked, *”Mum, is this a date? You’ve got someone, haven’t you?”*
Caught off guard, she froze. Then she turned, cheeks flushing. *”I don’t know how to explain… You’ll always be the most important to me, but—”*
*”You don’t have to. I’m not a kid anymore. Is it serious? Are you marrying him?”*
*”I haven’t decided yet. Would you mind?”*
*”No… but I’m used to it being just us. If you do, I won’t call him Dad.”*
*”He’s a good man. I’ve wanted you to meet him.”*
*”Fine. Let him come,”* I said, trying to sound indifferent.
Mum hugged me, whispering how grown-up I was. I wanted to say I didn’t want to share her, that we didn’t need anyone else—but I stayed quiet.
That Sunday, Mum curled her hair, put on a posh dress, and set the table like it was Christmas. The flat smelled of roast beef and her favourite perfume. It stung, knowing it wasn’t for me—just some bloke I hadn’t even met.
I’d imagined him tall, handsome, someone worthy of her. Instead, in walked a balding, heavyset man, much older, shorter than Mum even in her heels. He shook my hand firmly. *”Edward Wilcox. Nice to meet you, son.”*
Mum beamed. *”Dinner’s ready—let’s eat before it goes cold.”*
I braced for the usual dull questions—grades, school, *”back in my day”* lectures. But Edward just praised Mum’s cooking, listened when I talked about video games, even asked about new action films. No lectures, no interruptions. Just… listening.
Two weeks later, he moved in. Mum explained he’d been living in a bedsit after his divorce. Finding his razor in our bathroom hit me—this was permanent. My life had changed. Nights were the worst—muffled laughter through the walls. I’d pull the duvet over my head.
Then, when I was fifteen, Mum, blushing like a schoolgirl, said she was pregnant. I wasn’t happy. I’d be the older brother—the less loved one. I just muttered, *”Hope it’s a boy.”* What else was there to say? It was Edward’s fault. He’d ruined everything.
*”You’re jealous,”* he said later. *”Don’t blame your mum. She wanted this. She’s still young, and you’re nearly grown…”*
Why should *I* understand? No one asked me. Now Mum would waddle around, huge and embarrassing. But turns out, no one cared.
The birth was rough. Next day, Edward came to my room, grim-faced. *”You’ve got a brother. But… he’s not well. Cerebral palsy. Might have mobility issues.”*
*”Is he… slow?”* I whispered.
*”No. Just his legs. Your mum… she won’t believe it yet. Be kind to her.”*
*”Couldn’t they… leave him at the hospital?”*
*”She’d never.”* He sighed.
They named him Benjamin. He never slept unless Mum held him. I dragged myself to school exhausted, furious at her. We’d been fine—why ruin it? Furious at Edward most of all.
The diagnosis stuck. Medicine, physio—Edward sold his flat, took extra shifts. Money was tight. Our cramped two-bedroom felt smaller every day.
After sixth form, I left for university in another city. Mum barely reacted—too wrapped up in Ben. Edward promised to send money. At the station, he hugged me—properly, like a dad. My eyes stung. But I didn’t say it.
I didn’t miss home. Felt unwanted. Edward called more than Mum, updating me on Ben’s progress. I’d cut him off, claiming coursework.
Then, just before New Year’s, Mum called crying. *”Edward’s gone. Heart attack. Please come.”*
Funerals instead of parties. Mum aged a decade in months. *”How will I manage alone?”* she kept sobbing.
I pitied her—and didn’t. Her choice. Ben meant nothing to me. Yet he grinned, showing me doodles, shuffling on his walker. I left early, citing exams.
Without Edward’s money, I scraped by, resenting Mum more. Worked summers, never visited. Didn’t want her guilt, her exhaustion.
I married after graduation. Didn’t invite her. Lied to my in-laws—*”She’s grieving; no one to watch Ben.”* Never mentioned his condition.
Called her later, made excuses. *”Just a registry office thing. We’ll visit soon.”* She cried but said she understood.
I forgot that promise. New job, new life—no time. Never forgave her.
Years passed. Rare calls—birthdays, holidays. Mum mentioned Ben was freelancing now, earning well.
I didn’t want kids—blamed Ben, that resentment. My wife didn’t mind. We bought a flash car, a big house, holidays abroad. The past stayed buried.
Then Mum’s number flashed—but a man’s voice answered. *”It’s Ben. Mum’s gone. Funeral’s Wednesday.”*
*”How? She wasn’t old—”* I couldn’t even recall her age.
*”Cancer. Come if you can.”* He hung up.
I drove straight there. Wife offered to come—I refused. Ashamed.
Ben opened the door—tall, handsome, if you ignored his legs. *”You’re here,”* he said, hugging me. The flat was tidy, modern. *”I earn well now,”* he explained, seeing my shock. *”That computer you sent—top specs. Helps a lot.”*
I froze. *I* hadn’t sent anything. Mum’s doing—making him think well of me.
At the funeral, I promised to return but didn’t. Driving home, rain hammered the windscreen. Next thing I knew—crash.
Woke up in hospital. No feeling in my legs. *”Spinal fracture,”* the doctor said. *”Recovery’s possible—with belief.”*
Belief? I wanted to die. Tried crawling to the window one night—failed.
At discharge, the nurse said someone was waiting. I expected my wife.
It was Ben—with a pretty fiancée. *”I’ve contacted a German clinic,”* he said. *”They’ll fix you. And don’t worry—I’ve got the money.”*
*”How?”*
*”I earn well. Just believe.”*
*”Why not fix yourself?”*
*”Can’t. But you* can.”
That faith was contagious. The surgery worked. Months later, I took my first steps on crutches, weeping.
*”I’m sorry,”* I choked. *”I was ashamed of you. Blamed Mum. But you… you saved me.”*
Ben laughed. *”Don’t be daft. You’re walking—that’s what matters. You’ll dance at our wedding!”*
The shame nearly broke me. I’d abandoned them. But life turned tables—made *me* the one needing help.
Now I’ve got to learn more than walking—forgiveness, too. Why do we hurt others, not fearing the boomerang’s return? Like a spring—press itAnd as I watched Ben smile, unbroken by life’s cruelty, I finally understood—love isn’t measured by what we take, but by what we’re brave enough to give.
