The Extra Mouth
The kitchen table felt cramped. The small space barely fit five people—two adults and three children.
“Connor, grab the stool from the living room,” Mum said.
Seventeen-year-old Connor rolled his eyes but obeyed, returning with the stool.
“There. We’ll push the table back—no big deal, Maxie,” Mum said without glancing at the five-year-old boy who’d caused the fuss. She turned to Dad, whose displeasure at the rearranging was obvious.
Elena set the steaming bowl of stew in front of her husband first. She quickly sliced bread and cheese, passing garlic to her daughter to peel. Soon, plates covered the table. Connor copied his father, spreading thin slices of cheese on brown bread between spoonfuls of stew. The garlic disappeared quickly between the two, leaving the dish empty.
Max clutched his spoon but didn’t eat, watching the men across from him. He longed to imitate them, but his plate was too far away.
“Eat,” ten-year-old Sophie handed him bread and cheese.
Max grabbed them, chewing as if they were chocolate. Elena smiled and picked up her spoon.
Dad refused seconds. Connor nodded silently. Sophie sprinkled salt on her bread. Tea was drunk in silence, everyone staring into their mugs. Biscuits vanished quickly from the tin.
When dinner ended, Alexander stood first.
“Kids eat first now, then us. Table’s too small.”
Elena froze, plate in hand, but didn’t argue. Connor glared at Max, who munched a biscuit.
The day before, Dad had come home with Max in tow, nudging him inside.
“Come in, Max,” Elena said, holding a towel in the hallway. Clearly, they’d discussed this.
“Who’s that?” Connor asked, stepping out with a textbook.
“This is Max,” Mum said gently.
“I heard his name. Who is he?”
Alexander and Elena exchanged glances. They should have told the children earlier.
“Max is staying with us. We’ll add a fold-out bed in your room.”
“In our room?” Sophie burst out.
Their tiny shared room was already divided by a wardrobe. Adding another bed meant rearranging everything.
“Make space,” Dad said firmly. His authority wasn’t questioned.
Seven years ago, Dad had left. Mum had sobbed, begging him not to abandon her with two small children. But he’d packed a bag and walked out—he’d fallen for a woman named Antonia at the factory. Two years later, he returned, bag in hand, offering no apologies.
“If you filed for divorce, I’ll leave.”
Elena had no words. She’d waited for this moment, yet now, she simply forgave.
Life resumed, uneasy at first. Then Max arrived.
Antonia hadn’t been sick—she just didn’t want the boy. “Take him or I’ll send him to a home,” she’d told Alexander.
“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.”
Alexander couldn’t refuse.
Elena agreed without hesitation. She treated all the children equally.
Time passed. They bought a bigger table. Sophie got a corner of the living room, freeing space in the boys’ room.
Connor started uni. Max began school. But Connor’s resentment festered. He called Max “The Extra Mouth” behind closed doors, mocking him. With Dad around, he stayed quiet. With just Mum, he’d twist the truth to get Max in trouble.
One evening, Mum reheated meatballs she’d fried the night before—one for each.
“Someone took an extra meatball,” she noticed.
“Max stole them at lunch. Sophie saw,” Connor lied.
Sophie nodded—she had seen Max eat one.
“I had one,” Max admitted.
“Just one? I told you all to save one for dinner.”
“Yeah. Connor took the other. Like last time.”
Without looking at Connor, Elena gave Max her meatball.
“I read somewhere an extra mouth is worse than a gun. True, Mum?”
Dad slammed his fist on the table, snatched Connor’s plate, and glared.
“The only extra mouth here is you. You’re twenty—time to work if you want to eat!”
Max stared at his plate.
Dad stormed out. Connor grabbed his jacket and left. Sophie sipped tea, pretending not to notice.
Elena reached to comfort Max but saw his tears dotting the plate.
“Don’t waste it,” she said. “Take what’s yours. A man needs to eat.”
—
By year’s end, Max walked home alone.
One day, Connor spotted him near school. Four boys tossed a bag between them while Max scrambled after it. A girl stood nearby, hands covering her face.
Connor almost walked past—then saw Max on the ground, being kicked. He grabbed two boys, lifting them by their collars.
“Four against one? I’ll squeeze you like lemons!”
He didn’t look at Max, afraid—for the first time, afraid for someone else.
“Max, you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen. He’s my brother. Touch him again, I’ll make lemonade out of you.”
The boys fled. Connor crouched.
“Up. Your face?”
“I blocked it.” Max pointed to the girl. “They took her bag.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
“So why step in? They’re twice your size.”
“You stick up for any girl—five or twenty-five.”
Connor smirked, remembering Dad’s words.
“Right. Come on. Mum’ll kill you for the uniform.”
They walked in silence, Connor stealing glances as Max wiped his nose.
“Why’d you say that?” Max stopped.
“What?”
“You called me your brother. You never—”
“Aren’t you?”
Max nodded.
“Then shake on it, Max.”
Max spat on his palm before clasping Connor’s hand, making him laugh.
“Help me with maths? I promised Mum I’d get top marks.”
Connor grinned. “Done.”
By next year, Max was top of his class—with Connor’s help.
Connor tried moving out but couldn’t balance work and rent. Still, he chipped in at home.
One lesson from Dad had been enough.
