Two Brothers, or How Life Set Things Right
When Oliver was little, he never really questioned why he didn’t have a dad. His mum’s love was enough. But by secondary school, the lads started bragging—whose dad had the flashiest car, whose mobile was the priciest. Oliver stayed quiet. What did he have to boast about? No car, just a basic phone. His mum worked as a GP, no fancy connections, just pensioners and their aches.
One day after school, Oliver finally asked about his father.
“You don’t remember him? When you were three, he met someone else. I couldn’t forgive that. So we divorced, and he left. At first, he dropped by with cheap little gifts. Then he had a child with her…” His mum sighed.
Her eyes turned sad, and Oliver decided not to ask again. Why bother? If his dad didn’t need him, he didn’t need that dad either. He had the best mum anyway—young, pretty, everyone in town knew her. Oliver was proud of her.
Then a man entered her life. She started slipping out in the evenings and weekends—birthdays, visits, “difficult patients” needing attention, or so she claimed. But Oliver wasn’t a kid anymore. You don’t wear your best dress and perfume for house calls. She’d come home with flowers, smiling, eyes sparkling.
One evening, as she primped in the mirror before a date, humming, Oliver asked, “Mum, is this a date? You’ve got a bloke, haven’t you?”
Caught off guard, she froze, then turned. Her cheeks flushed, her gaze guilty.
“I don’t know how to explain… You’ll always come first. But—”
“Don’t bother. I get it. Is it serious? You marrying him?”
“I haven’t decided. Do you mind?” she asked bluntly.
“No. But… I’m used to just us. If you marry him, I won’t call him Dad.”
“He’s kind. I’ve wanted you to meet. I just didn’t know how.”
“Let him come over, then,” Oliver allowed, magnanimous.
“Thank you.” She hugged him. “You’re so grown-up. How about Sunday?”
Oliver 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 said nothing.
On Sunday, she styled her hair differently, wore a smart dress, glowed as she set the table. Oliver hadn’t seen her like this in ages. The flat smelled of roast and her perfume. The only sour note? None of it was for him.
He’d pictured someone tall, handsome—worthy of her. Instead, a balding, paunchy bloke showed up, years older. In heels, she towered over him. He shook Oliver’s hand firmly. “Gerald Whitmore.”
Over dinner, Gerald praised Mum’s cooking, adored her with his eyes. Asked about Oliver’s video games, new action films—actually listened, no interruptions. No tedious lectures about grades or “back in my day.”
Two weeks later, Gerald moved in. His divorce settlement left him with a cramped bedsit, Mum explained. Oliver hadn’t known those still existed.
Finding a stranger’s razor and toothbrush in the bathroom, it hit Oliver: this was permanent. He’d have to share her. At night, muffled whispers and laughter seeped through her door. He pulled the duvet over his head.
At sixteen, Mum—blushing like a schoolgirl—announced she was pregnant. Oliver wasn’t thrilled. He’d be the older, less-loved one now. All he said was, “If it’s a boy, fine.” What else could he say? He blamed Gerald.
“You’re jealous? Don’t be angry. It was her choice. She’s still young, and you’re…”
Why should Oliver understand? No one asked him. Soon she’d be waddling around—what would his mates think? Turned out, nobody cared.
The birth was rough. Next day, Gerald came in, grim. “You’ve got a brother. But… he’s not well. Cerebral palsy. His spine’s affected. We don’t know how bad yet.”
“A spastic?” Oliver stared.
Gerald winced. “Hopefully not. But he’ll have mobility issues. Your mum… she’s in denial. Just support her, alright?”
“You can leave those in hospital, can’t you?”
“She won’t.” Gerald sighed.
Little Ben cried unless held. Oliver dragged himself to school, furious. They’d been fine! Why’d she need another kid? Furious at Gerald, too—this was his fault. Mum grew thin, exhausted, a stranger.
Money got tight. Gerald sold his bedsit, took extra shifts. Their two-bed flat felt smaller.
At eighteen, Oliver announced he’d study abroad. Mum barely reacted—too wrapped up in Ben. Gerald promised financial help. At the station, he hugged Oliver like a father. Oliver’s eyes stung. But he couldn’t say it.
He left without regret. Unneeded. Calls came from Gerald, not Mum—updates on Ben’s progress. Oliver tuned out, citing exams.
New Year’s Eve, Mum called in tears. Gerald was dead—heart attack. The holiday became a funeral.
Mum aged overnight. Wailed about raising a disabled child alone. Oliver pitied her and didn’t. Her fault. Ben smiled at him, showed him drawings. Oliver helped with arrangements, then fled to uni.
Without Gerald’s money, Oliver skipped meals, resenting Mum more. He worked summers, never visited. Didn’t want to see her tired, guilty eyes.
He married after graduation. Didn’t invite Mum. Lied to his in-laws—”Grieving. No one to mind Ben.” Never mentioned the wheelchair.
Years passed. Rare calls, obligatory birthday wishes. Mum mentioned Ben’s computer work. Oliver tuned out.
Then her number flashed—but a man’s voice answered.
“Ben. Mum’s gone. Cancer. Funeral’s Wednesday.”
Oliver drove straight there. His wife offered to come; he refused. Ashamed.
Ben opened the door—a handsome teen, if you ignored the twisted legs.
“You came.” Ben hugged him. Inside, the flat was renovated.
“You did this?”
“I earn well. Thanks for the new PC—it’s brilliant.”
Oliver said nothing. Mum’s doing.
At the funeral, he promised to return. Didn’t.
Months later, rain blurred the motorway. He swerved—woke in hospital, legs numb. Broken spine. Surgery done, but rehab would take months.
His wife visited twice, then vanished. Fair enough—who’d want a cripple?
One night, he tried crawling to the window. A nurse caught him. Doctors scolded; a therapist droned. Oliver tuned out.
Discharge day, a nurse smirked, “Someone’s waiting.”
Ben stood there with a pretty girlfriend.
They took him home. Ben had researched German spine clinics, arranged everything.
“Money?” Oliver scoffed.
“I told you—I earn well. Believe it.”
“Why not fix yourself?”
“Can’t. But you can walk again.”
Later, Oliver shuffled outside on crutches, weeping.
“I’m sorry. I was ashamed of you. Blamed Mum. But you saved me.”
Ben grinned. “We’re brothers. No debts. You’ll dance at my wedding.”
Oliver’s shame burned. He’d abandoned them. But life had flipped their roles. Now he’d learn to walk—and forgive himself.
Funny, how life mirrors your actions back at you—like a coiled spring. Press it hard enough, and it snaps back harder.
