“An Extra Mouth”
Dinner was cramped. Their tiny kitchen barely fit five: two parents and three kids.
“Tom, grab the stool from the living room,” Mum said.
Seventeen-year-old Tom rolled his eyes but obeyed, dragging back a wobbly stool.
“There. We’ll shift the table, and it’ll fit. Don’t worry, Charlie, it’s fine,” she said, though she didn’t even glance at the five-year-old who’d caused the fuss. Instead, she shot a look at Dad, who scowled at the rearranged clutter.
First to be served was Dad—steaming bowl of beef stew, thick slices of bread, butter, and a dish of pickles shared between them all. Tom mirrored Dad, layering salted butter on brown bread, alternating bites with spoonfuls of stew. The pickles vanished fast, leaving nothing but vinegar in the dish.
Little Charlie clutched his spoon but didn’t eat, just watched the two men opposite him. The dishes were too far to reach.
“Here,” ten-year-old Lucy nudged him, passing bread and butter. He snatched it, chewing like it was chocolate cake. Mum smiled and finally picked up her own spoon.
Dad refused seconds. Tom just nodded. Lucy asked for salt to sprinkle on her bread. Tea was drunk in silence, everyone staring into their mugs. Biscuits disappeared quick—no one lingered.
When they finished, Dad stood first.
“Kids eat first next time. Then us. This table’s too small.”
Mum froze with a plate in hand but didn’t argue. Tom glowered at Charlie, still munching a biscuit.
Yesterday, Dad hadn’t come home alone. He’d nudged a small boy inside.
“Come in, Charlie,” Mum had said, holding a towel in the hallway. Clearly, they’d discussed it—Charlie’s arrival wasn’t a surprise.
“Who’s this?” Tom had stepped out, textbook in hand.
“This is Charlie,” Mum answered gently.
“I heard his name. Who *is* he?”
Dad and Mum hadn’t prepped the kids. They’d meant to—should’ve—but hadn’t.
“He’ll live with us. We’ll fit a fold-out bed in your room.”
“*Our* room?” Lucy bolted into the hall.
Their tiny space was split by a wardrobe. Fitting another bed meant upheaval.
“You’ll manage.” Dad’s word was law—always had been. One sharp look, and the kids obeyed.
Seven years ago, Dad had left. Mum had sobbed, begged him not to abandon her with two little ones. But he’d packed one bag and gone. He’d met a woman—Tina—at the factory, and nothing else mattered. Not the kids, not Mum.
Two years later, he returned. Same bag. No apology, just:
“Did you file for divorce? If not, I’m back.”
Mum hadn’t answered. She’d waited so long for this. Forgave him long ago—she just wanted to see him.
A year of icy distance passed before Dad told her everything, begged forgiveness. They found their rhythm again—until Charlie arrived.
Tina wasn’t sick. She just didn’t want a child—he got in the way. She’d only had him because the factory promised her a flat.
“Take him, or I’m sending him to foster care,” she’d told Dad.
“Where? We’re four in a two-bed!”
“Not my problem,” she shrugged. “You didn’t ask where he’d go when I had him.”
“Thought you loved me. Wanted Charlie.”
She laughed. “You *thought*. Decide by the first—day off. He’s gone otherwise.”
She’d bluffed. Knew Dad would never abandon his son.
Mum agreed instantly. Never treated Charlie differently—same clothes, toys, school prep. She split everything three ways now.
Tom hated it. Behind closed doors, he called Charlie *”the extra mouth”*—sneering, bitter. When parents were out, he’d torment the boy—blaming him for things he didn’t do.
Once, Tom ate an extra sausage at lunch—knowing Mum had fried just enough for one each. That evening, when Mum warmed leftovers:
“Who took an extra sausage?”
“Charlie pinched one at lunch. Lucy saw,” Tom lied smoothly.
Lucy nodded—*had* seen him eating one.
“I *did* have one,” Charlie admitted.
“*Just* one? I told you all to save one for dinner.”
“Yeah. It was Tom. He’s lying—like last time.”
Mum didn’t even glance at Tom. She slid her plate to Charlie.
“Read somewhere that an extra mouth is worse than a gun. True, Mum?”
Dad slammed the table, stood, and yanked Tom’s plate away. He glared, silent, then swapped Mum’s nearly empty plate with Tom’s full one.
“*You’re* the extra mouth. Twenty years old, leeching off us. Want food? Get a job.”
Charlie stared at his plate.
Dad stormed out. Tom bolted. Lucy pretended to sip tea.
Mum reached to stroke Charlie’s hair—then saw tear stains on his sausages.
“You’ll salt them if you keep crying.”
“I can’t eat it…”
“You *will*. It’s yours. Take what’s yours—gratefully. Men need full bellies to work, to think.”
—
By year’s end, Charlie walked home alone—no longer waiting for Lucy.
One day, Tom spotted him near school. Four lads were tossing a bag, Charlie scrambling between them. A girl stood aside, face hidden.
Tom almost walked past—until he saw Charlie knocked down, kicked.
He lunged, grabbed two boys by their collars.
“Ganging up, eh? I’ll wring you like dishrags!”
He didn’t look at Charlie—*couldn’t*. First fear he’d ever felt—for someone else.
“Alright, Max?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. This is my brother. Cross him again, I’ll find you.”
The bullies fled. Tom crouched.
“Up. Face hurt?”
“I covered it. They were after *her* bag.”
He pointed to the girl. She took it wordlessly.
“Know her?”
“No.”
“You fought four for a *stranger*?”
“Shouldn’t girls be stood up for? Doesn’t matter how old.”
Tom almost smiled—Dad’s words.
“Right, Max. Let’s go. Mum’ll kill you—your uniform’s wrecked.”
They walked in silence. Tom kept stealing glances as Charlie wiped mud off his blazer.
“Why’d you call me *Max*?” Charlie suddenly asked.
“What?”
“You never call me that. Usually it’s—”
“You *are* my brother, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Then *Max* it is. Shake?”
Charlie spat on his palm before offering it. Tom laughed but shook it anyway.
“Help me with maths? Promised Mum I’d get top marks.”
“Struggling?”
“A bit,” Max shrugged.
“Sorted. No sweat.”
Next year, Max aced every test—Tom’s doing.
Tom moved out (or tried to—rent was steep). But he paid his share now. After the sausage incident, he never bullied Max again.
One lesson from Dad had been enough.
