She Stole My Father — Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it? Finally! Oxana pinched her phone to her ear with her shoulder, wrestling with a stubborn lock. The key turned reluctantly, as if testing its new mistress. — Darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is it all right? — her mother’s voice trembled with excitement and concern. — Perfect! Bright, spacious. Balcony facing east, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? — Here I am, here! — Victor’s deep voice came from the speaker. — Mum put it on speaker. Well, has the fledgling left the nest? — Dad, I’m twenty-five, not a fledgling. — You’ll always be a fledgling to me. Have you checked the locks? Windows draft-free? The radiators… — Vicky, let the child settle! — interrupted her mother. — Oxana, be careful there. Newly-built, you never know about neighbours. Oxana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. — Mum, this isn’t a seventies council flat. Decent building, decent people. It’ll be fine. The following weeks became a blur — between DIY shops, furniture showrooms, and her new flat. Oxana fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up thinking about the right shade of grout for her bathroom tiles. On Saturday, she stood in her lounge, staring at swatches for curtains, when her phone buzzed again. — How’s it all coming along? — her father asked. — Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” What do you think? — I think they’re the same colour, but the marketers are different. — Dad, you don’t understand the subtlety of shades! — I do understand electrics. Sockets done properly? The renovations ate up time, money, and nerves, but every new touch turned bare walls into a real home. Oxana picked out creamy beige wallpaper, found a good floor-layer, invented a way to make her tiny kitchen look more spacious. When the last contractor took away the rubbish, Oxana sank to the spotless floor amidst gleaming surfaces. Soft light streamed through new curtains, fresh paint hung in the air. Her very first home… She met her neighbour three days after moving in completely. Oxana fiddled with her keys at the door when the lock opposite clicked. — Oh, the new girl! — A woman in her thirties poked her head out. Cropped hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. — I’m Alison. I live right opposite — guess that makes us neighbours. — Oxana. Lovely to meet you. — If you ever need sugar, salt, or a chat, just pop in. Weird being alone at first in a new build, I remember. Alison proved to be good company. They drank tea in Oxana’s kitchen, swapped stories about the building management and layout details. Alison shared her wisdom: the best Wi-Fi, trusty plumber, and the shop with the freshest groceries. — Tell you what, I have a recipe for apple sponge — out of this world! — Alison flicked through her phone. — I’ll send it over. Done in half an hour, tastes like you’ve slaved all day. — Yes please! Haven’t tried my oven yet. Weeks rolled on, and Oxana was glad for such an open neighbour. They bumped into each other on the stairs, popped in for coffee, exchanged books. On Saturday, Victor came to help with a shelf. No matter how she tried, it wouldn’t stay up. — Wrong wall plugs, — he diagnosed, inspecting the fittings. — These are for plasterboard. Yours’s concrete. All right, I’ve proper ones in the van. Within an hour, the shelf hung firm. Victor gathered his tools, scrutinised his handiwork, satisfied. — There you go. That’ll last twenty years. — You’re the best, Dad! — Oxana hugged him. They headed down, chatting about nothing in particular. Victor asked about work, Oxana griped about her new boss who mixed up deadlines and lost papers. At the entrance, Alison approached with supermarket bags. — Oh, hi! — Oxana waved. — Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison, my neighbour I told you about. — Lovely to meet you, — Victor greeted with his trademark friendly smile. Alison froze briefly, eyes flitting between them. Her smile looked forced, glued on. — Likewise, — she muttered, hurrying inside. Everything changed after that. Next morning, Oxana met Alison on the landing and greeted her — only to receive a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited her for tea. Alison fobbed her off with a hasty excuse. Then, the complaints began… The first time, a community officer knocked at nine in the evening. — Received a noise complaint, — the elderly policeman looked sheepish. — Loud music, banging noises. — Music? — Oxana was baffled. — I was reading a book. — Well, neighbours are complaining… The letters snowballed — management got notes about “unbearable stomping,” “constant racket,” and “late-night music.” The police visit became routine, every time the officer apologetic and helpless. Oxana realised where it was coming from. What she didn’t know was — why. Every morning was a lottery — today it might be eggshell smeared on the door, coffee grounds between the frame and panel, a bag of potato peelings placed beneath her mat. Oxana got up half an hour earlier to clean the mess before work. Her hands stung from cleaning supplies, throat tight with stress. — I can’t go on like this, — she muttered one night, searching online for video door viewers. Installation took twenty minutes. The tiny camera disguised as a peephole recorded everything on the landing. Oxana connected it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At 3 a.m., the screen lit with motion alert. Oxana, incredulous, watched Alison — in a dressing gown and slippers — methodically smearing something dark over her door. Deliberate, precise, like a familiar chore. The next night, Oxana waited up. At half two, there were noises outside. She flung open the door. Alison froze, holding a bag that sloshed with something unpleasant. — What did I do to you? — Oxana’s voice caught, pitiful even to herself. — Why are you doing this? Alison slowly set the bag down. Her features twisted, bitterness distorting her attractive face. — You? Nothing. But your precious father… — What about my dad? — The fact that he’s my father too! — Alison almost shouted, uncaring who heard. — Only, he raised you, spoiled you, loved you, while he left me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called once! Mum and I scraped by while he built his happy family with your mother! So you, you basically stole my father! Oxana backed up, hitting the doorframe. — You’re lying… — Lying? Ask him! Ask if he remembers Marina Solloway and little Alison, the daughter he tossed out like rubbish! Oxana slammed the door and slid to the floor, one thought thundering: it’s not true, it’s not true. Dad couldn’t. Couldn’t. Next morning she drove to her parents. All the way, she rehearsed questions, but seeing her dad, calm as ever with his newspaper, she choked. — Oksy! What a surprise! — Victor looked up. — Mum’s at the shop, she’ll be back soon. — Dad, I need to ask… — Oxana perched on the sofa, twisting her handbag strap. — Do you know a woman named Marina Solloway? Victor froze. The paper slipped from his hands. — Where did you… — Her daughter — my neighbour. The one I introduced you to. She says you’re her dad. Silence hung like a shroud. — Let’s go to her — Victor said abruptly. — Right now. I need to make this right. The drive to the new build took forty minutes. There was no talking; Oxana stared out at passing houses, mind trying to make sense of everything. Alison opened straight away, as if she’d been waiting. She looked them both up and down, then stood aside for them to come in. — Come to confess? — she threw at Victor. — Thirty years later? — I’ve come to explain. — Victor pulled a folded paper out of his jacket. — Read this. Alison took the document suspiciously. As she read, her expression shifted — anger to confusion, confusion to bewilderment. — What… is this? — DNA test results, — Victor replied calmly. — I did them when your mum tried to take me to court for child support. The test says: I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my child. The paper fluttered to the floor… Oxana and her dad left Alison’s flat. At home, Oxana stepped towards Victor and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his coat. — I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry for even doubting you. Victor stroked her hair, just like he did when she was a little girl who’d had a fight with friends. — There’s nothing to forgive, love. Other people made this mess. Relations with Alison never recovered. But Oxana didn’t want them to. After everything, she had lost all respect for that neighbour forever…

Took My Father

Mum, Ive finally moved in! Can you believe it? At last!

Sophie cradled her mobile between shoulder and ear, battling a stubborn lock on her new flats front door. The key twisted with resistance, as if testing the resolve of its new owner.

Oh, sweetheart, thank goodness! her mothers voice soared with a blend of worry and triumph. And the flat? Is everything alright?

Its perfect! Really bright and spacious. The balcony faces east, just as I hoped. Is Dad there?

Right here, love! boomed Peter in the background. We put you on speaker. Well then, the fledglings left the nest, eh?

Dad, Im twenty-five! Hardly a fledgling.

Youll always be my fledgling. Have you checked all the locks? Any draughts through the windows? Radiators all working

Peter, let the child settle in, Mum interrupted kindly. Sophie, please be careful. You never know who lives nearby in a new build.

Sophie laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door.

Mum, its not some cramped council flat from the seventies. Its a decent place; decent neighbours. Everythingll be fine.

The next few weeks blurred into endless runs between B&Q, furniture shops, and her new home. Sophie fell asleep every night with wallpaper catalogues scattered over her pillow, and woke up thinking about which shade of grout matched best with her bathroom tiles.

One Saturday, she was surrounded by curtain samples in her sunlit lounge when her phone buzzed again.

Hows it all coming along? asked her father.

Slowly but surely. Todays the big curtain decision. Im torn between ivory and milk. Any thoughts?

I reckon theyre exactly the same colourjust different salespeople.

Dad, you really dont get the difference in tones!

I do understand electrics. Did they wire the sockets properly?

Months of DIY ate away at her time, savings, and energy, but each small touch transformed bare walls into somewhere she could actually call home. Sophie chose the creamy-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own tradesman for the flooring, and figured out how to rearrange furniture to make the cramped kitchen look roomy.

When the last builder carted away the leftover rubbish, Sophie plopped down on the clean lounge floor. Soft light spilled through her brand-new curtains, the air smelled of fresh paint and possibility. Her first real home

Three days after settling in, she met her neighbour. She was fiddling with her keys when the flat opposite unlocked.

Oh, the new girl! A woman in her early thirties poked her head out, cropped hair set off by bold lipstick and curious eyes. Im Claire. Live right across from you, so were officially neighbours now.

Sophie. Nice to meet you.

If you need salt, sugar, or just a natter, pop by anytime. Its a bit odd at first, being on your own in a new blockI remember.

Claire proved delightful company. They swapped stories over cuppas in Sophies kitchen, commiserating about letting agents and the quirks of their floor plan. Claire shared handy tipswhere to get the best broadband, a trustworthy plumber, which grocer had the freshest produce.

Wait, Ive got a killer apple crumble recipelegendary! Claire scrolled through her mobile. Ill text it now. Honestly, only half an hour and tastes like you spent all Sunday baking.

Oh, please do! I havent even used my oven yet.

Days slipped into weeks. Sophie was grateful for having such a welcoming neighbour. Theyd bump into each other on the stairs, drop in for coffee, and swap books.

Saturday, Peter turned up to help with a shelf that simply refused to stay up.

You got the wrong plugs, love, he observed, examining the fixings. Those are for plasterboard, this walls solid concrete. Luckily Ive got the right kit in the car.

An hour later, the shelf held firm, Peter packed his tools and checked his handiwork with a satisfied nod.

Thatll hang steady for at least twenty years.

Dad, youre a star! Sophie threw her arms around him.

They walked downstairs, chatting about work and life. Peter quizzed her about her job, she moaned about her new boss who confused deadlines and misplaced files.

By the entrance, Claire appeared with shopping bags from Tesco.

Hello! Sophie greeted. Meet my dad, Peter. Dad, this is Claire, my neighbour I told you about.

Nice to meet you. Peter offered his warm, easy smile.

Claire hesitated, her eyes flickering over Peters face, then Sophies. The smile she gave was stiff, almost forced.

Likewise, she said curtly, disappearing into the building.

After that, everything shifted. The very next morning, Sophie bumped into Claire on the landing and cheerfully waved, only to receive a cold nod in reply. Two days later, she invited Claire for tea; Claire cut her off with a quick busy and walked away.

Then the complaints began.

The first knock came at nine oclock, startling Sophie with its formality.

Good evening, apologised the elderly policeman. Weve had complaints about loud music and noise.

Music? I was reading a book! Sophie protested.

Well, neighbours have been writing in

Complaints came tumbling inletters to the building manager about intolerable thudding, constant banging, and music late at night. The local bobby started turning up regularly, mumbling apologies, helpless.

Sophie knew exactly who was behind it. But she couldnt fathom why.

Every morning was a gamble: would todays offering be eggshell smashed against her door? Stubborn coffee grounds wedged in the cracks? A bag of potato peelings tucked under her mat?

She took to waking half an hour early just to clean up before work. Her hands stung from bleach, and a permanent lump lodged in her throat.

This cant go on, she muttered, scrolling online for security spy-holes.

Fitting the camera took twenty minutes. The tiny lens hidden in the doors peephole recorded everything in the hallway, linked straight to her phone. Sophie braced herself and waited.

She didnt have to wait long.

At three AM, her phone lit up. Disbelieving, she watched as Clairein dressing gown and slippersdeliberately smeared something dark over Sophies door. Calm, almost routine, thorough.

The next night, Sophie didnt sleep. She sat in the hallway listening for the slightest noise. At half two, there was faint rustling.

She swung open the door.

Claire froze, clutching a sodden bag. Its contents squelched.

What have I done to you? Sophie blurted out, her voice sounding weaker than shed hoped. Why are you doing this to me?

Claire let the bag drop to the floor. Anger twisted her features into something almost monstrous.

You? Youve done nothing. But your lovely daddy

What does my dad have to do with any of this?

Hes my father too! Claires voice cracked, echoing down the hall. He brought you upspoiled you, loved you. But he abandoned me when I was three! Never sent a single penny, never called. Mum and I scraped by, while he built a happy family with your mum. So, really, you stole my father from me!

Sophie backed against the doorframe, breath catching.

Youre lying

Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Maria Arnold and little Claire, the ones he dumped like rubbish!

Sophie slammed the door and slumped to the floor. Racing thoughts clashed in her head: Not true, not true, not true. Dad couldnt. He just couldnt.

Next morning, she drove straight to her parents. She recited the questions over and over, but when she saw her fathercalm as always, newspaper in his handthe words stuck.

Sophie! What a surprise! Peter looked up, delighted. Your mums just popped out.

Dad, I have to ask Sophie perched on the edge of the sofa, nervously twisting her handbag strap. Do you do you know a woman called Maria Arnold?

Peter froze. The newspaper slid from his grip.

How do you

Her daughter is my neighbour. The one I introduced. She says youre her father.

Silence drowned the room.

We need to see her, Peter said abruptly. Now. Its time this was put to rest.

The drive across town seemed endless. Neither spoke. Sophie watched the city roll past, trying to piece together her upended world.

Claire opened the door immediately, as if shed been waiting. She glared at the pair, but stood aside to let them in.

Here to confess, are you? she snapped at Peter. After thirty years?

Im here to explain. Peter reached into his coat and handed her a folded paper. Read it.

Claire took the document gingerly. As she read, her face shiftedfrom anger, to confusion, then dismay.

What what is this?

A DNA test result, Peter replied softly. I took it when your mum tried to claim child support. It proved Im not your father. Maria cheated on me. Youre not my daughter.

The paper dropped from Claires trembling hands.

Sophie and her father stepped out of Claires flat. Back at home, Sophie crossed the lounge and hugged her father tightly, her face buried in the rough wool of his jumper.

Im sorry, Dad. Im so sorry I doubted you.

Peter stroked her hairjust as he always had when she ran to him as a little girl after a row with friends.

Theres nothing to forgive, love. The blame belongs to someone else.

Claire never spoke to her again, and Sophie didnt mind. After everything, any respect for her neighbour was lost forever.