When I turned seven, my father—who had started a second family—had a son, named after him: Thomas Thomas.
One day, Dad walked into my grandmother’s backyard (my mum’s mum) with a toddler in his arms. The little boy, with jet-black hair and dark, wide eyes, suckled fiercely on his dummy, staring at us all with an intense curiosity. The frilly bonnet he wore made it impossible to tell he was a boy at first glance.
“Tommy, meet your sister.”
Brevity was one of Dad’s talents. With those few words, he presented his eighteen-month-old son with the fact of an older sibling.
Grandma’s maternal instincts overpowered her shock, and she scooped little Tommy into her arms. And just like that, on the 15th of September, 1983, Thomas Thomas joined our all-female household. Mum called him “Tommy” and nothing else, while Gran dubbed him “Little Dark Eyes.”
With Gran, it was simple—she had no capacity for malice in her.
But I was in awe of my mother. Her resentment toward Dad ran so deep it often flared into white-hot rage… until my baby half-brother came along.
Tommy was born frail—a congenital heart defect left him weak. They nursed him through it, but the illness flared often. He became a regular in paediatric cardiology wards. Yet, against all odds, the little fighter pulled through.
Whenever Dad brought him to us, chaos erupted. That jubilant little boy had a knack for rousing everyone into action. He devoured Gran’s scones and Mum’s shepherd’s pie with equal delight. Pillow forts rose in the middle of the sitting room, and feathers floated through the air like snow. The neighbourhood cats vanished until dusk. Laughter spilled across all six acres of our little estate. Mum would always say, “Bring him round more often.”
It was Tommy who kept Dad in our lives. It was Tommy who softened Mum’s heart toward him.
It wasn’t pity. Tommy was impossible not to love. He’d wrap his arms and legs around us, clinging like a little koala, grinning ear to ear.
“Auntie Nina, I love you! Granny Val, I love you! Dad, I love you!”
One summer, Dad took us to London’s Hyde Park, where chestnut blossoms turned the paths into rivers of white. To keep track of Tommy, Dad bought him a battery-powered toy rifle from Harrods. Every time Tommy pulled the trigger, it crackled loudly, letting us know where the “little runt” was. But then—disaster. He got so carried away, the batteries died. Dad hoisted me onto his shoulders, sprinting through Harrods, shouting, “Keep your eyes peeled, love! Where’s that little devil got to?”
We found him in the handbag section, charming three shop assistants, grinning mischievously as he stuffed his face with the sweets they’d given him…
As he grew older, we endured what Dad and Uncle called “corrective labour therapy” at their hands. If I think hard enough, there wasn’t a single day when our guardians weren’t mopping up after our mischief. Yet, when summer ended, we never wanted to leave.
Dad had to drag us home, wailing and kicking, every 29th of August.
One New Year’s Eve, Dad took us to the city’s Christmas fair. He hitched two sledges together like a train and raced us through the park. I can still hear our laughter, still feel the snowballs Dad pelted at us. But the night ended in hospital. Mid-laugh, Tommy crumpled into the snow, gasping for air. His heart had betrayed him again.
We sat together in A&E—me, Dad, Tommy’s mum (who’d rushed over in a cab), and my own mum and Gran, who barged in moments later.
We just sat there, staring at each other. Silent.
After that, Tommy didn’t visit for a long time. His mum, it turned out, wasn’t keen on “this strange shared custody.”
Our little household grew quiet. Gloomy. Dad came alone. Gran and Mum understood and never pushed.
Four months later, a crash echoed from the front gate, followed by a shout:
“I’m here! Where is everyone? Granny!!!”
I’ll never forget Mum and Gran scrambling to peel Tommy off the fence where he’d been dangling, hauling his little bike inside. The three of us hugged and fussed over our “Little Dark Eyes” like he was a lost treasure. Then Mum bolted inside in a panic to call Dad. Turned out—Tommy had run away.
Dad stormed in, pale as marble, and roared,
“That’s it—where’s my belt? Someone’s getting a thrashing!”
But Tommy just grinned, safely tucked behind Mum and Gran.
It was a strange symbiosis. A former wife nursing a grudge, an ex-husband, and two children who shared only a father. And Gran—who we all adored.
Life is unpredictable. Things don’t always go as planned.
At my graduation, he stood beside my parents in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie.
At my wedding, he was there—my handsome little brother.
When we buried Gran, he was there.
…And my father endured the cruelest torment of all—outliving his own child. Our Tommy died at twenty-eight. His heart simply stopped.
The only comfort Dad had after that was my daughter—his granddaughter. Mum aged a decade overnight.
And me?
To me, he’s never gone. My beloved little brother, the baby boy Dad carried into my life, all those years ago.
Author: Tatiana Bilychenko.