**A Home for Emily**
Oliver had always idolized his older brother and copied him relentlessly since childhood. At dinner, he’d eat whatever Tom did, even if he hated it. If Tom ran outside without a hat, Oliver would rip his off too. Their mother would scold Tom—”Put it on, or Oliver will catch a cold!”
Six years separated them, but to Oliver, it felt like a lifetime. Why couldn’t Mum have had him sooner? Tom went out with his mates, never letting Oliver tag along.
“I’m not your babysitter. The lads’ll take the mickey,” Tom would say dismissively. Oliver would burst into tears.
“Stop it, or I won’t draw with you again.”
And just like that, Oliver fell silent, as if a switch had been flipped.
Tom was brilliant at drawing. Oliver watched, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil raced across the paper. He tried to copy but only managed scribbles. Then Tom would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to use. Those moments—side by side—were Oliver’s happiest, and he treasured them.
Of course, they fought. Oliver often got the rough end of it. In petty revenge, he’d hide Tom’s pencils or doodle moustaches on the portraits in his sketchbook. Tom would cuff him round the ear and call him “shrimp” or “runt,” which Oliver hated.
One day, Tom actually took Oliver to the park where the neighbourhood lads hung out. They hid behind the bushes, smoking.
“Tell Mum and Dad, and I’ll wallop you,” Tom warned, spitting through his teeth. Oliver believed him. Even when Tom roughed him up, Oliver never snitched.
At school, Oliver was left alone—everyone knew he was Tom’s brother. Tom wasn’t a bully, but people feared him. He did boxing, fought bloody. Few dared cross him.
Oliver begged Mum to let him join the same gym. But like drawing, he was hopeless. He hated fighting. Soon, he quit, finally admitting defeat. He stopped trying to be like Tom and threw himself into schoolwork instead—where, ironically, he outshone his brother.
Tom swung a mean fist but scraped by in class. After school, he enrolled at the local polytechnic to study construction. His sketches began to feature the same girl over and over. Oliver thought nothing of her.
Now Tom had a student’s life—no room for schoolboy Oliver. He came home late, distant and quiet.
One day, Oliver stumbled upon a poem in Tom’s notebook. It wasn’t hard to guess who inspired it—the girl from the drawings.
“You could do better,” Oliver remarked offhand. “Someone like Lucy Carter. She’s the prettiest girl in our year. Hell, in the whole school. *She’s* worth sketching, worth writing poems for.” He quoted a line from Tom’s verse.
Before Oliver knew what hit him, he was on the floor, his cheek burning as if seared with a poker.
“What’s that on your face? Been scrapping again?” Mum eyed him sharply at dinner.
Tom snorted, shovelling in spaghetti bolognese like nothing had happened.
“Slipped. Fell face-first into a pothole,” Oliver hissed through clenched teeth. Talking hurt.
Mum shot Tom a look. He shrugged. She fetched frozen mince from the fridge, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Oliver.
“Put that on it.”
In his final year, Tom announced he was getting married and would bring his fiancée home that weekend.
“Oi, big man!” Oliver scoffed.
“You got a problem?” Tom glowered, and Oliver knew better than to push it. One punch had been enough.
“Nah, just chuffed. You’re not gonna live here, right? Means I get the room to myself. Brilliant! No more of your snoring. Don’t change your mind.”
Tom relaxed, clapping Oliver on the shoulder.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Lucky sod.”
Emily was sweet and pretty, with clear hazel eyes, a button nose, and curly chestnut hair. She radiated warmth, clinging to Tom’s arm as she answered their parents’ questions. It was obvious she adored him. Oliver burned with envy. To him, Tom was the best brother—who was *she* to steal him away?
At the table, Oliver stole glances at her. And the more he looked, the more he liked what he saw.
“Don’t stare,” Mum muttered once Tom had left to walk Emily home.
“As if. I’ll find someone better,” Oliver sneered.
After the wedding, Tom moved in with Emily and her mum. He barely visited. He’d grown up fast. Graduating, he landed a job with the biggest construction firm in town. A year later, their son was born. The flat was cramped, so Tom started building a house—designing it himself, working weekends. His mates helped. Dad approved, chipping in cash.
By then, Oliver had finished school and, for once, didn’t follow Tom’s path. He went to uni to study law. “Building’s for losers,” he scoffed. “Clever blokes use their heads, not their hands.”
Once, Mum sent Oliver to drop off clothes for the growing baby. Emily had softened, more womanly now, radiant. Oliver flushed, mumbling as he handed her the bag.
“Come in.” Emily laughed, tugging him inside. “Tom’s away on business, and the washing line snapped in the loo. Fix it? He won’t be back till Thursday, and I’ve got laundry piling up.”
So Oliver restrung the line. Then Emily handed him the baby and busied herself with tea. The boy studied Oliver intently before snuggling against him. Something in Oliver’s chest tightened. Holding the child felt *right*. Watching Emily bustle about for him—he saw her differently now. Through Tom’s eyes.
And he was lost.
Emily haunted his dreams. In them, they walked by the pond together, feeding ducks as a trio…
Oliver dated—even Lucy Carter. But she seemed vapid and selfish, like all the others.
Three days later, Emily called Mum, who gasped, nearly dropping the phone.
“Anything could’ve happened! Maybe he missed the train, his phone died… Don’t jump to conclusions!” Her voice trembled as she looked at Dad. “We’re coming over.”
“What’s wrong?” Dad asked.
“We’re going to Emily’s. Tom never came home. He should’ve been back this morning. Emily rang work—he never showed. He called once he got on the train. Then nothing. Phone’s off. I *feel* it. Something’s happened.”
But Emily had no answers, just tears. Their parents went to the police, who took a report but said they wouldn’t search for three days. “Probably shacked up with some bird. He’ll turn up.”
Next morning, the police rang. A body had been found outside town—matched Tom’s description. Mum wailed, collapsing. Dad stayed with her while Oliver went to identify him.
No doubt. It was Tom. For the first time, Oliver realised how much he loved his brother. He sobbed right there. The coroner said Tom had been stabbed, then thrown from the train. No witnesses. No ID, no phone.
At the graveside, Emily stood pale and frozen, staring blankly at the coffin. She broke when they lowered it in.
Tom had nearly finished the house. Just small touches left—paint, fittings. Dad and Oliver took over. Six months later, they all moved in. Emily refused to live there alone, and her mum wouldn’t leave her flat. There was space for everyone. They rented the flat out to cover the mortgage.
Emily was withdrawn, never smiling—even at her son. If she cried, no one saw. Probably at night.
Oliver couldn’t sleep. How could he, knowing she was just beyond the wall? Sometimes she flinched when he spoke or approached.
“Scared of me?” he asked once.
“Opposite. I want to touch you. Your voice… You look so much like him.”
“Then do it,” Oliver said, stepping closer.
She retreated. Horror flickered in her eyes—not what he’d expected. They usually chatted warmly. She made him breakfast, ironed his shirts. They took Max to the park, the boy clinging to Oliver’s hand. But any hint of deeper feeling, and she shrank away.
Three years passed, torture for Oliver. He caught Mum’s reproachful looks but couldn’t help himself.
When girls rang, he’d lay on the charm, watching Emily stiffen or leave. He *wanted* a reaction—did she care or not? And he knew. She felt it too. But he couldn’t say it.
Until one day, he dared.
“Tom’s gone. He’s not coming back. Can’t you see I love you? Being near you but not touching you—it’s agony. I can’t take it. You feel it too. I *know* you do.”
“You’re lovely, Oliver. ButShe hesitated, then finally whispered, “Stay,” and in that moment, Oliver knew they would build a new life together within the walls Tom had left behind.
