When I turned seven, my dad had a son with his second wife, named after him—Samuel Samuel Smith.
One day, Dad walked into my grandma’s (Mum’s mum) backyard with a toddler in his arms. A little, dark-haired, dark-eyed munchkin, noisily sucking on a dummy and staring at us all with these massive eyes. The frilly bonnet didn’t help anyone figure out he was a boy.
“Sammy, meet your sister.”
That was Dad—straight to the point. He plonked the eighteen-month-old right in front of me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Grandma’s instincts kicked in before her shock could, and she scooped little Sammy up. Just like that, on the 15th of September, 1983, Samuel Samuel Smith became part of our all-female household. Mum always called him “Sammy,” never anything else. Grandma went with “little luv,” and honestly, that made sense—she didn’t have a single drop of bitterness in her.
Mum, though? That was harder to wrap my head around. She’d been so hurt by Dad that her anger sometimes burned into something fiercer… until Sammy came along.
He’d been born fragile—a congenital heart defect. They’d managed to keep him going, but it flared up a lot. He practically grew up in paediatric cardiology units. But against all odds, the little fighter pulled through.
When Dad brought him over, the house would erupt into chaos. This cheerful little whirlwind had a knack for getting everyone on their feet. He’d devour Grandma’s scones and Mum’s stew, build pillow forts in the middle of the lounge, feathers floating everywhere. The cats wouldn’t show their faces till sundown. Laughter spilled out across our little garden, and Mum would always say, “Bring him round more often.”
Sammy ended up being the reason Dad managed to keep us in his life. Because of him, Mum softened—just a little—toward Dad.
And it wasn’t out of pity. You couldn’t *not* love Sammy. He’d wrap his arms and legs around you like a little koala, grinning ear to ear. “Auntie Nina, I love you! Granny Val, I love you! Dad, I love you!”
Once, Dad took us to London, to Hyde Park. The chestnut trees were in full bloom, the place drowning in white flowers. To keep track of Sammy, Dad bought him a toy gun from Harrods that made a racket every time he pulled the trigger. It worked—until the batteries died halfway through. Dad, with me on his shoulders, sprinted through Harrods yelling, “Keep your eyes peeled—where’s that little rascal?!”
We found him in the handbag section, charming three shop assistants. Fluttering his eyelashes and stuffing his face with the sweets they’d given him.
When he got older, Dad and Uncle put us through our paces with “corrective chores.” Honestly, I don’t think there was a single day they *didn’t* have to clean up after us. But come the end of summer? Neither of us wanted to go home. Dad would drag us back to our mums on the 29th of August, both of us bawling.
One New Year’s, Dad took us to the town’s Christmas tree. Tied two sledges together like a train and raced us round the park. I can still hear our laughter—and the snowballs Dad threw at us. The fun ended at the hospital. Sammy, laughing one second, collapsed into a snowdrift the next, gasping for air. His heart had decided to remind us all it wasn’t right.
The ER waiting room was packed—me, Dad, Sammy’s mum (who’d rushed over in a cab), and then my mum and grandma barging in. We all just sat there, staring at each other. Dead silent. After that, Sammy didn’t visit for ages. Turned out his mum wasn’t keen on the whole “weird blended family” thing.
Our little girl gang was miserable. Dad came alone after that. Grandma and Mum understood and kept quiet.
Then, four months later, a crash at the garden gate and a shout: “I’m here! Where is everyone? Granny!!!”
I’ll never forget Mum and Grandma hauling Sammy off the fence and dragging his bike into the yard. The three of us hugged and poked at our “little luv” like he might vanish. Then Mum sprinted inside in a panic to call Dad. Turns out—Sammy had just run off. Dad, white as a sheet, came tearing into the garden yelling,
“Right, where’s my belt? Someone’s getting *such* a hiding!”
Sammy just smirked, safely tucked behind Mum and Grandma.
We were a strange little family. A bitter ex-wife, an ex-husband, two half-siblings, and a grandma we all adored. Life’s funny like that.
At my graduation, he stood with my parents in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie.
At my wedding, he was right there. My handsome little brother.
When we buried Grandma, he stayed by our side.
…Dad got dealt the cruelest hand—outliving his own child. Our Sammy died at twenty-eight. His heart just stopped.
The only thing that kept Dad going after that was his granddaughter—my daughter. Mum aged ten years overnight.
But for me?
For me, he’s still here. My little brother—the one Dad carried into my life one day, tiny and bright-eyed.
Author: Tanya Bilichenko.