“Bloody hell, Dennis! That’s my room!” Peter Collins stood in the doorway, keys clenched in his fist, staring in disbelief.
“Was your room, Uncle Pete,” the lad didn’t even glance up from his phone, sprawled on the sofa. “Mum said it’s mine now.”
“What d’you mean, ‘Mum’?” Peter exploded. “I’m not your uncle! Where’s my bed? Where are my things?”
Dennis shrugged, eyes still glued to the screen. “Bed’s on the balcony, stuff’s in boxes. Mum says you’ll manage.”
Peter felt the ground drop from under him. He’d lived in this flat twenty years—that room was his sanctuary, his refuge. Now some smug eighteen-year-old was acting like he owned the place.
“Margaret!” he bellowed, storming toward the kitchen. “Margaret, get in here now!”
His wife walked out, wiping her hands on her apron, not a shred of guilt on her face. “What’s all the shouting about, Peter?”
“What’s the shouting about? Your son’s taken over my room! My things are on the bloody balcony! What’s next, eh?”
“Calm down, Peter,” Margaret said smoothly, voice firm. “Dennis got into uni, he needs space to study. You’ll be fine out there—I’ve made it cosy.”
“On the balcony?” Peter couldn’t believe his ears. “Maggie, have you lost it? This is my flat! I’m the one on the lease!”
“Our flat,” she corrected. “And Dennis lives here now. Permanently.”
Peter slumped onto a chair. When he’d married Margaret two years ago, she’d mentioned a son who lived with his dad. The lad visited sometimes, kept to himself—never caused trouble. Peter even thought they might get on.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, exhausted.
“What’s there to say? Dennis is grown, needs his own space. You’ll adjust.”
“Adjust,” Peter repeated. “Maggie, I work shifts—I need proper sleep. It’s freezing out there in winter, boiling in summer.”
“You’ll cope. Dennis is a good lad, he won’t disturb you.”
Peter stared at her. Two years ago, she’d been his lifeline. After years alone, after his divorce—his ex-wife taking their daughter up north—Margaret had been a breath of fresh air. Pretty, mid-forties, an accountant with kind eyes and a knack for roasts. They’d met in the park—she’d been feeding pigeons while he read the paper on a bench.
“I’ve got a son,” she’d said then. “Lives with his dad but visits sometimes.”
“No problem,” Peter had said. “I like kids.”
And he had. His daughter, Sophie, he barely saw—his ex made sure of that. At first, Dennis seemed alright—polite, quiet, kept to himself.
“Listen, Maggie,” Peter tried to keep calm. “Maybe we sort this differently? Get Dennis a pull-out in the lounge? Keep my room as it is?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Dennis needs quiet for his studies. You just watch telly.”
“Just watch telly—” Something inside him snapped. “Maggie, I come home shattered. I need decent rest.”
“You’re being selfish, Peter. Only thinking of yourself. I’ve got a son to look after.”
Peter stood and walked to the balcony. His bed was there, shoved against the wall, boxes stacked beside it. The glass kept out the worst, but the damp still seeped in. He sat on the edge, head in his hands.
That evening, Dennis came out to eat. Peter sat at the table, sipping tea.
“Look, Dennis,” he started, forcing patience. “Let’s talk, yeah? Maybe we sort this proper?”
“What’s to sort?” Dennis grabbed a yogurt. “I’ve got my room, you’ve got yours. Fair’s fair.”
“My ‘room’ is a balcony,” Peter muttered.
“Plenty of space, though. You and Mum’ve got the rest.”
“Dennis, I get uni’s important. But you can’t just treat people like this. We could’ve talked, figured something out.”
“Talked?” Dennis smirked. “You’re not family. Mum’s Mum—you’re just her husband. For now.”
“For now?” Peter’s stomach dropped.
“You think this is forever?” Dennis shrugged. “Mum’s still got her looks. Might trade up.”
Peter’s face burned, but he bit his tongue. No use causing a scene.
“Dennis, I respect your mum—and you. But this is my home.”
“Yeah?” Dennis yawned. “Not anymore. Mum says after marriage, everything’s shared.”
“We signed the papers with my flat as ours,” Peter reminded him.
“So? Law’s the law.”
Peter gave up. The lad wasn’t budging.
Next day, he tried again with Margaret. “Maggie, I’m serious. The balcony’s not fit to sleep on. Can’t we sort something else?”
“Stop whinging, Peter,” she said, stirring soup. “Dennis is a student—he needs proper conditions. You’re a grown man; cope.”
“Cope?” Peter snapped. “I work nights at the power plant—one slip and I could cause a blackout.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she scoffed. “It’s just a balcony.”
“It’s damp! And why should I be shoved out of my own home?”
Margaret turned, her eyes cold now. “Because my son comes first.”
“Maggie—”
“That’s it, Peter. Stay or go—your choice.”
Peter stared. Where was the woman who’d made him Sunday roasts, rubbed his shoulders after late shifts, whispered she loved him?
That night, Dennis blasted music while Peter tried to sleep after a gruelling shift.
“Turn it down!” he knocked.
“Can’t hear you!” Dennis shouted back.
“I said off! People are trying to sleep!”
The door swung open. Dennis leaned against the frame, grinning. “Go sleep in the kitchen, then. Quieter there.”
“I can’t sleep in the bloody kitchen!” Peter snapped.
“Then buy your own place.” Dennis smirked. “This one’s taken.”
“You little—!” Peter stepped forward, but Dennis slammed the door, locking it.
“Mum!” he shouted. “Your husband’s trying to hit me!”
Margaret rushed out. “Peter! What’s gotten into you?”
“‘Into me’? Your ‘little boy’s’ eighteen—he’s chucked me out of my own room!”
“He’s studying!”
“He’s gaming all night!”
“Not your concern,” she said icily. “Don’t like it? Leave.”
“This is my home,” Peter said quietly.
“Our home. And my son lives here.”
Peter sat on the sofa, defeated. He’d been a fool.
Next day, he found the lock on his old room changed. Dennis was inside, gaming.
“Why’s the lock new?” he asked Margaret.
“Dennis wanted it. Says you barge in.”
“I used to live there.”
“Not anymore.”
Peter sat at the kitchen table, silent. Then he stood, walked to the balcony, and started packing.
“What’re you doing?” Margaret asked.
“Leaving,” he said, not looking up.
“Don’t be daft. It’s just a balcony.”
“I won’t sleep on a balcony in my own home. Seems it’s not mine anymore.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“My mum’s. She’s got space.”
“And the flat?”
“Keep it. You’ve already decided it’s yours.”
Margaret said nothing. Dennis peered out.
“About time,” he said. “Always in the way.”
Peter looked at him, then at Margaret. She turned away.
“Right,” he said softly. “Best of luck.”
He grabbed his bag. At the door, he paused.
“Maggie… I loved you.”
“And I loved you,” she murmured.
“Loved,” he repeated. “Now it’s just him.”
“Children come first,” she said.
“Even before family?”
“Family’s me and Dennis. You were… temporary.”
Peter nodded, stepped out. The lock clicked behind him.
On the landing, he thought how fast life changes. Yesterday, he had a home, a wife, a life. Today—a bag in his hand, nowhere to go.
He called his mum.
“Mum? Can I stay a few days?”
“Course, love. What’s happened?”
“Tell you when I’m there,” he said, trudging downstairs.
Inside the flat, Dennis was already phoning mates, planning a party—finally rid of the “annoying stepdad.”
