A Home for Hope
Edward had always admired his elder brother and from a young age had followed his example. At the dinner table, he would only eat what William ate, even if he disliked it. If William ran outside without a hat, Edward would yank his own off. Their mother would scold William to put his hat back on, lest Edward catch a chill.
Though only six years apart, to Edward, the gap felt like a lifetime. Why couldn’t their mother have had him just two or three years sooner? William went out with his mates, but never let his little brother tag along.
“You’re not my responsibility. The lads’d laugh at me,” William would say dismissively. Edward would howl.
“Stop it, or I won’t draw with you anymore.”
And Edward would fall silent at once, as if switched off.
William was a gifted artist. Edward would watch, mesmerised, as his brother’s pencil flew across the page. He’d try himself, but his scribbles were a mess. Then William would sit beside him, patiently showing him how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to use. Those quiet moments together were Edward’s happiest, and he treasured them.
Of course, they quarrelled and even fought. Edward bore the brunt of William’s strength, and in helpless frustration, he’d retaliate—hiding pencils, scrawling moustaches over William’s portraits. William would cuff him and call him “shrimp” or “runt,” names Edward despised.
One day, though, William took Edward to the park where the local lads gathered, lurking behind bushes to smoke.
“Tell Mum and Dad, and I’ll thrash you,” William warned, spitting through his teeth. Edward never doubted he meant it. Even when William was rough, Edward never tattled.
At school, everyone knew Edward was William’s brother, so they left him alone. William wasn’t a troublemaker, but he was feared—a fierce boxer who fought bloody battles. Few could match him.
Edward begged their mother to let him join the same boxing club, but like drawing, he had no talent for it. He hated fighting and soon quit, finally admitting defeat. He stopped striving to be like his brother and threw himself into his studies—where, as it turned out, he outstripped William entirely.
William could swing a punch but scraped through school. After his A-levels, he enrolled at the polytechnic to study construction. His sketches began featuring the same girl’s face—nothing special, in Edward’s opinion.
Now William had a student’s life, with no room for schoolboy Edward. He came home late, distracted and quiet.
One day, Edward stumbled across a poem in William’s notebook and knew at once who it was for—the girl from his drawings.
“You could do better,” Edward remarked. “Someone like Emily Whitaker. She’s the prettiest girl in my year. No, the whole school. That’s who you should sketch, write poems for.” He quoted a line from William’s verse.
Edward didn’t see the blow coming. He woke on the floor, his cheek burning as if seared with a red-hot poker.
“What happened? Another scrap?” Their mother studied his face at dinner.
William snorted and kept shovelling in his bangers and mash as if nothing had happened.
“Slipped and hit a pothole,” Edward muttered, wincing as he spoke.
Their mother shot William a sharp look. He shrugged. She fetched a packet of frozen peas, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Edward.
“Hold it to your cheek.”
In his final year, William announced he was getting married and would bring his fiancée home at the weekend.
“Ha, the bridegroom!” Edward scoffed.
“You got a problem?” William glowered. Edward knew better than to push—his jaw still ached from the last time.
“Nah, just pleased. You won’t be living here, right? Means the room’s all mine. Brilliant! No more listening to your snoring. Hope you don’t chicken out.”
William relaxed, clapping Edward on the back.
“No chickening out. Lucky you, little brother.”
Hope was sweet and pretty, with warm hazel eyes, a delicate upturned nose, and soft chestnut curls. She radiated springtime.
She clung to William’s arm, answering their parents’ questions bravely. It was plain she adored him. Edward burned with jealousy—William was the best brother anyone could have, and now this Hope…
At dinner, Edward stole glances at her. The more he looked, the more he liked her.
“Don’t stare at your brother’s girl,” his mother chided once William had gone to walk Hope home.
“As if I care. I’ll find someone better,” Edward sneered.
After the wedding, William moved in with Hope and her mother. He rarely visited, seeming older all at once. Graduating, he joined the city’s biggest construction firm. A son arrived a year later. Their tiny flat grew cramped, so William began building a house—designing it himself, labouring with mates. Their father approved, helping with funds.
Edward, meanwhile, finished school and for once didn’t follow William—he read law at university, sneering that construction was for failures. Clever men worked with their minds, not their hands.
Once, their mother sent Edward to deliver clothes for his growing nephew. Hope had softened into a striking woman. Flushing, Edward mumbled something as he handed over the bag.
“Come in.” Laughing, she tugged him inside. “William’s away. The washing line snapped—could you fix it? He won’t be back for days, and I’ve nowhere to hang the laundry.”
Edward restrung the line. Hope handed him the baby and bustled about setting the table. The boy studied him solemnly before nestling close. Edward’s heart swelled. It felt good holding the lad, watching Hope fuss over him.
For the first time, he saw Hope through William’s eyes—and was lost. She haunted his dreams, where they walked by the pond, feeding ducks…
Edward dated, even Emily Whitaker. But she seemed silly and selfish, like all girls his age.
Three days later, Hope phoned their mother, who gasped, nearly dropping the receiver.
“Anything could’ve happened! Maybe he missed his train, his phone died… Don’t jump to conclusions…” She shot their father a frantic look. “We’ll come now.”
“What’s wrong?” their father asked.
“We’re going to Hope’s. William never came home. He should’ve been back this morning. She rang his work—he never showed. Said he called when he boarded the train, then nothing. Can’t reach him, his phone’s dead. I’ve a bad feeling.”
But Hope had no news, just tears. Their parents went to the police, who took a statement but said they wouldn’t search for three days. “Probably off with some bird. He’ll turn up.”
The next morning, the police called. A body had been found outside town matching William’s description. Their mother wailed, collapsing. Their father stayed with her; Edward went to identify him.
No doubt—it was William. Edward wept openly, realising how much he’d loved his brother. The coroner said William had been stabbed and thrown from the train. No witnesses, no leads. His wallet and phone were gone.
At the graveside, Hope stood pale and rigid, staring blankly into the coffin. She broke when they lowered it.
The house was nearly finished—just details and decorating left. Edward and their father took over. Six months later, they all moved in. Hope had refused to live there alone; her mother wouldn’t leave her flat. There was space enough for everyone. They let the flat to pay off loans.
Hope was withdrawn, barely smiling at her son. If she wept, no one saw—only at night, perhaps.
Edward couldn’t rest. How could he sleep knowing she lay just beyond the wall? Sometimes she flinched when he spoke or approached.
“D’you fear me?” he once asked.
“The opposite. I want to touch you. Your voice… you look so like him.”
“Then touch me,” Edward said, stepping closer.
She recoiled, terror flashing in her eyes—not what he’d expected. Usually, they chatted amiably. She’d make him breakfast, iron his shirts. They’d stroll with little George, who held Edward’s hand. But any hint of his feelings made her retreat.
Three years passed, torment for Edward. He bore his mother’s reproachful looks helplessly.
Sometimes girls called, and he’d talk sweetly, watching Hope turn away. He wanted to see if she’d react, if she cared. She did—he knew it—but he couldn’t speak his heart.
Until one day, he dared.
“William’s gone. Don’t you see? I love you. Being near you and not touching you—it’s agony. I can’t bear it. You feel it too. I know you do.”
“Edward, you’re kind. But this… living together… it was too soon.”
“Why? Aren’t you happy here? Mum d**”On a crisp autumn morning, as Hope carefully placed George’s tiny hand into Edward’s, the weight of grief finally lifted, and the house William had built—once so full of sorrow—became a home again.”**
