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“If Only Everyone Helped Like This: When Family ‘Support’ Turns Your Home Upside Down”

Molly, love, Ill drop round today and help out with the little ones. Molly wedged her phone between her

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While There’s Still Time

When she was twelve, she faced an operation. Simple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, straightforward

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Every Love Has Its Own Shape Ann made her way outside and immediately shivered as the biting wind snuck beneath her thin cardigan—she hadn’t bothered with her coat. She stepped out into the garden, just standing there and glancing about, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?”—She jumped when she saw Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a little older with wild hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, it’s just…—” Ann lied. Michael looked at her, then fished three sweets from his pocket and handed them over. “Here, just don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all be after me. Go inside,” he ordered firmly, and she obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… just…” But Michael had already figured it out. He nodded and walked on. In the village, everyone knew Ann’s father, Andrew, drank. He often went to the only shop and asked for credit until payday. Val, the shopkeeper, would scold him but still give in. “How you haven’t been sacked yet, I don’t know—” she’d mutter after him, “—you already owe a fortune,” but Andrew would quickly leave and spend the money on drink. Ann went inside. She’d only just come home from school, she was nine. There was never much food at home, but she didn’t want to tell anyone she was hungry, or else she’d be taken from her father and put in care—and she’d heard terrible things about that. Besides, who would look after dad? He’d fall apart on his own. No, better things stay as they are, even if the fridge was empty. That day, Ann had finished school early—two teachers were off sick. It was late September, a cruel wind hurled yellow leaves from the trees and chased them down the road. This September was especially chilly. Ann had an old jacket and worn boots; if it rained, they’d soak right through. Her dad was sleeping—still in his clothes and shoes—snoring on the sofa. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table and more under it. She opened the cupboard, but it was bare—not even a bit of bread. Ann wolfed down the sweets Michael had given her, then sat down to do her homework, curling up on the wooden stool, but she couldn’t concentrate—numbers were the last thing on her mind. The wind outside bent the trees, swirling dead leaves everywhere. The garden outside, once lush and green, was now grey and dead. The raspberry canes had dried up, the strawberries gone, only weeds now grew on the old beds, even the apple tree was lifeless. Mum used to care for it all, nurture every sprout. The apples had been sweet, but this August, Dad had picked the lot early and sold them at the market, muttering, “I need the cash.” Ann’s father—Andrew—hadn’t always been like this. He used to be gentle and cheerful; they’d go mushrooming in the woods with Mum, watch movies together, have tea and pancakes in the morning—pancakes Mum made, with apple jam tarts on weekends. But one day, Mum got ill, and they took her to hospital. She never came home. “Something with her heart,” Dad said, and cried, and Ann cried too, cuddling close as he hugged her tightly, “Now your mum will be watching over you from above.” After that, Dad would just sit with her photo, staring into space, and then, in time, he started drinking. Unpleasant men started turning up at the house, talking loudly, laughing coarsely. Ann would retreat into her tiny room, or slip away to sit behind the house, out of sight. She sighed and finished her homework quickly—schoolwork was easy for her. After, she packed her books away into her schoolbag, and lay down on her bed. On her bed was her old rabbit, a soft toy Mum had given her when she was little—her favourite. She’d always called him Timmy. He’d faded from white to grey but she still loved him. Ann squeezed her battered rabbit tight. “Timmy,” she whispered, “do you remember our Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Ann didn’t doubt he remembered, just as she did. Sleepy memories came—blurry but bright. Mum, in her apron, hair tied back, kneading dough in the kitchen. Always baking something. “Come on, love, let’s make magic buns,” Mum would beam. “How are they magic?” Ann would wonder. “They just are, you’ll see!” Mum would laugh. “We’ll shape them like hearts, and when you eat a heart, if you make a wish, it comes true.” Ann would help Mum roll dough into little heart-shaped buns. They’d always come out wobbly, but Mum would only smile gently: “Every love has its own shape.” Ann would wait eagerly for the buns to bake, so she could eat one piping hot and make a wish. The whole house smelled of sweet pastry, and when Dad came home, the three of them would have tea with Mum’s magic buns. Ann wiped away fresh tears from these happy memories. That was then. Now the empty ticking of the clock echoed the emptiness inside her, the loneliness, the ache for Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, hugging Timmy close, “I miss you so much.” Over the weekend, when there was no school, Ann decided to go for a walk after lunch; Dad was lying comatose on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and headed out, towards the woods. Not far off was an old house—Mr. Edwards’ place, though he’d died two years back—but his apple and pear orchard was still there. She’d been before, climbing the fence to gather fallen apples and pears, telling herself: “I’m not really stealing… I just pick up the ones on the ground—no one else wants them.” She only vaguely remembered old Mr. Edwards—a kindly man with white hair and a cane—who used to give apples and pears to the local kids, sometimes even a sweet from his pocket. He was gone, but the orchard still fruited. Ann dropped over the fence and reached for an apple when— “Oi! Who are you?” She jumped, seeing a woman in a coat standing on the porch. In her surprise, Ann dropped the apples. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “I’m Ann… I’m not stealing…just picking up what’s on the ground… I thought…” “I’m Mr. Edwards’ granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I live here now. Have you been coming here long?” “Since Mum… since Mum died…,” Ann choked, tears brimming. The woman hugged her gently. “There, there, no more tears now. Come inside, I’m Anna—Anna Silver. When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna too.” Anna Silver quickly realised the girl was hungry, and that life hadn’t been easy for her. They went in. “Take your shoes off, I’ve cleaned up since yesterday, though I’ve barely unpacked. I just made some soup and a little something else. Looks like we’re neighbours now,” she said, eyeing Ann’s skinny frame, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is your soup… does it have meat?” “With chicken, darling,” Anna replied kindly. “Come, let’s eat.” Ann didn’t hesitate—she was starving. She sat at the table, checkered cloth beneath her elbows, the house warm and cosy. Anna Silver brought over a bowl of soup, with a plate of bread. “Eat as much as you’d like. If you want more, just ask. Don’t be shy, Ann.” And Ann wasn’t. She finished the bowl in minutes, bread and all. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full.” “Then, time for tea!” Anna brought out a low basket under a tea towel, and when she pulled it off, the scent of vanilla filled the room—inside lay heart-shaped buns. Ann picked one up, took a bite, and closed her eyes. “These… these are just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum made magic buns just like these.” After tea, flushed-cheeked and content, Ann sat back, and Anna Silver spoke gently: “So, Ann, tell me about your life—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you home after.” “That’s all right, it’s only a few houses away, no need—” Ann didn’t want Anna to see the mess at theirs. “I insist,” Anna replied. Their house was silent when they arrived; Dad still on the sofa, bottles and rubbish everywhere. Anna looked around, shaking her head. “Now I see…” Then she said briskly, “Come on, let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, put empty bottles in a bin bag, threw open the curtains, shook out the filthy mat. Ann blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone how we live. My dad’s a good man—just lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away, and I don’t want that. He really is good, just misses Mum so much…” Anna hugged her. “I promise, your secret’s safe with me.” Time passed. Ann ran off to school with neat plaits, a new coat, smart boots, backpack over her shoulder. “Annie! My mum says your dad married again—is it true?” her classmate Martha asked. “You look lovely—your hair’s so pretty now!” “It’s true—I have a new mum now, Auntie Anna!” Ann replied proudly, hurrying off to school. Andrew had long stopped drinking, helped by Anna Silver. Now they always walked together—Andrew tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna dignified, confident, and kind. They were always smiling—and Ann was adored. Years flew by. Ann was a university student. She returned home for the holidays and burst in through the door: “Mum, I’m home!” Anna rushed to meet her, wrapped her in a hug and laughed, “Oh, my clever girl, welcome home!” And in the evening, Andrew would come back from work, happy and proud. Every love, indeed, has its own shape.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and instantly shivereda biting wind wormed straight

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A Man Enjoys a Day Off and Naps, But Suddenly the Doorbell Rings—Who’s Calling So Early? Upon Answering, He Finds a Frightened Elderly Woman Claiming to Be His Mother, Reappearing Years After Being Taken From Him as a Child; Torn by Painful Memories and Her Troubled Past, He Must Decide Whether to Trust Her as Family Secrets and Betrayal Are Dramatically Unveiled

A man is enjoying a rare day off, catching up on sleep, when suddenly the doorbell rings. Who could be

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Just a Childhood Friend

Are you really planning to spend your Saturday going through junk in the garage? The whole day?

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My Husband Works, But I Pay for Everything You ask how I ended up at this point in my life and how I agreed to such an arrangement, but my answer is that all women who love are blind. I was blind. All my life I tried, I learned. My mother told me from childhood that if I wanted a good life, I had to work hard. She also said a woman should be strong and independent so she could always support herself if needed. Apparently that last piece of advice played a cruel trick on me. When I dated men, I was too independent, and few wanted to date me. Back then, most men wanted a delicate woman they could protect, to show their strength and masculinity. I looked after myself. Then I focused only on work. I was single until I was 35, when I met David. He’s the same age as me. I was surprised that he accepted my independence. He never insisted on doing things or helping if I said I’d do it myself. He never brought flowers or whispered sweet nothings, which I couldn’t stand. With him, I was an equal partner. I should have known how much this so-called equality would cost me, because in reality it wasn’t equal at all. We got married and he moved in with me. David didn’t have his own place—he had lived with his mum. And I didn’t want to live with a mother-in-law. I’d heard enough stories to know I wouldn’t like it. For the first month, David didn’t give me any money from his salary, claiming he needed to pay off a small loan for his mother’s operation. I said nothing and tried to be understanding. We’re family—let him pay off the debt, then we’ll manage things together. But for seven months he still hadn’t paid it off. He kept saying he wasn’t paid enough, his hours had been cut, or something else. The whole time, I paid for food, entertainment, and bills. Later he told me he was saving to buy us a cottage in the countryside—or for holidays. Yet for five years, he never showed me a bank statement. We’re family. Eventually, I confronted him. How is it possible I’d supported him for five years? That’s not normal. He packed up and left for his mum’s. Just like that. Three days later, unable to bear it, I brought him home again. And the same story started up. He won’t give me a penny for anything. And now I’m so tired. I want to spend money on women’s treats, but I just can’t—I spend everything on the family. What should I do? Get a divorce? Will he ever change?

My husband has a job, but I pay for absolutely everything. You ask how I ended up in this situation

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Veronica Kuzminishna Adored Cats… How Could She Not, When She Believed She Was One of Them, Even Though She Was Truly a Dog?

Veronica Whitcombe adored felines more than anything How could she not, when she believed herself to

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Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and immediately shivered as a biting wind cut straight through her thin jumper—she’d left the house without her coat. She wandered through the gate and simply stood there, glancing around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her face. “Annie, why are you crying?” She jumped, startled to see Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older, his hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just—” Annie lied. Michael looked at her for a moment, then reached into his pocket and held out three sweets. “Here, but don’t tell anyone or they’ll all come running. Go inside now,” he ordered sternly, and Annie quickly obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Michael already understood and nodded, heading on his way. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He often visited the only local shop, begging the shopkeeper, Valerie, for credit until payday. She scolded him but caved in. “How haven’t they sacked you yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie slipped back inside her home. She’d just come from school—she was nine years old. There was hardly ever proper food at home, but she wouldn’t tell anyone she was hungry. Otherwise they’d take her away to a children’s home—and she’d heard awful things about those places. Besides, what would Dad do without her? He’d go completely to pieces. She’d rather stay, even if the fridge was always empty. That day, Annie had come home earlier—two lessons were cancelled as the teacher was ill. It was late September; a sharp wind tore yellow leaves from the trees and whipped them across the yard. This September was a cold one. Annie’s old coat and boots let in the damp when it rained. Her dad was asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring. Two empty bottles sat on the kitchen table, another under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—nothing inside, not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate Michael’s sweets and decided to do her homework. Pulling her knees onto the stool, she opened her maths book, staring at sums she couldn’t bring herself to tackle. Instead, she gazed out the window, watching the wind bend trees and scatter yellow leaves around the yard. The garden, once lush, was now dead—raspberries shrivelled, strawberries gone, weeds everywhere, even the old apple tree dried up. Mum used to look after everything, cherishing every sprout. She’d bake sweet apple pastries and heart-shaped buns. But this August, Dad had picked all the apples early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he grumbled. Dad, Andrew, hadn’t always been like this—he used to be kind and jolly. With Mum, they’d go for walks in the woods, watch telly together, share tea and Mum’s fluffy pancakes in the mornings. Mum baked apple jam pies and heart-shaped buns. One day, Mum fell ill. Taken to hospital—with a heart condition, Dad said. She never came back. “Your mum is watching over you now,” Dad said through tears, and Annie cried too, clinging to him, her only comfort. Afterwards, Dad sat for hours with Mum’s photo, lost in thought. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men turned up at the house. Annie would hide away or slip outside to sit on the bench. Annie sighed and returned to her sums, finishing her homework quickly—she was clever and picked things up easily. She packed her books and lay down on her bed. Her bed always had Timmy, her old soft rabbit. Mum had bought him ages ago—she’d loved him forever, calling him Timmy since she was little. He was grey now instead of white, but still her favourite. “Timmy,” she whispered. “Do you remember Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered too. Annie closed her eyes—memories blossomed, vivid and joyful. Mum in an apron, hair tied back, hands dusted with flour. “Come on, darling, let’s bake some magic buns.” “How are buns magic, Mum?” Annie had asked. “They just are,” Mum smiled. “We’ll make heart-shaped ones—and if you eat a magic bun, you should make a wish. It’ll come true.” Annie loved shaping dough into little hearts, though they came out crooked. Mum just smiled fondly: “Every love has its own shape.” Annie would wait excitedly for the buns to bake, eager to eat a hot one and make a wish. Mum, Dad and Annie—tea together, magic buns filling the house with sweet vanilla. Annie wiped away tears from those happy memories. That was then… The clock ticked in the corner—she felt hollow and sad, missing Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Timmy, “how I miss you.” On a Saturday, with no school, Annie went for a walk after lunch—Dad was asleep on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and set off towards the woods. There was an old house nearby, once belonging to Old George, who had died two years back. But there were still apple and pear trees in his orchard. She’d often climb through the fence and collect fallen fruit. She told herself, “I’m not stealing, it’s just the windfalls—no one else wants them now.” She remembered Old George only vaguely—he was kind, gave out apples, pears, and sometimes sweets to the kids. He was gone now, but the trees still bore fruit. Annie squeezed through the fence, picked up two apples, rubbed one on her coat, and took a bite. “Hey! Who are you?” Annie jumped—on the doorstep stood a woman in a coat. Annie dropped her apples, startled. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing… just the windfalls…” Annie stammered, “I didn’t know anyone was here—there never used to be…” “I’m George’s granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I’ll be living here now. How long have you been collecting apples here?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked, and tears swelled. The woman embraced her. “There, there, don’t cry. Come in and have some tea—I’m Anna. Just like you, really—when you’re older, you’ll be called Anna too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life hard. They stepped inside. “Take off your shoes. I’ve put the house in order, still got suitcases to unpack. Let’s get you fed—I made chicken soup this morning.” Anna looked at Annie—thin shoulders, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is the soup with meat?” Annie asked quietly. “Of course—with chicken,” Anna replied gently. “Take a seat.” Annie was too hungry to be shy. Her stomach rumbled as she sat at a chequered table, warmth and light filling the house. Anna placed a bowl of soup and bread before her. “Eat up—have as much as you like, there’s plenty,” Anna urged. And Annie did, finishing every last bit, mopping up with her bread. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full,” Annie replied. “Then let’s have tea!” Anna brought out a basket covered with a cloth—underneath, heart-shaped buns filled the room with a vanilla scent. Annie took one, bit into it, and closed her eyes. “Just like Mum’s buns,” she murmured, “my mum made them too.” Afterwards, Annie sat, rosy-cheeked and relaxed, while Anna said, “So, Annie, tell me your story—where do you live, with whom? After, I’ll walk you home.” “I don’t need walking home, it’s just four doors down…” Annie hesitated, not wanting Anna to see the mess. “I insist,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home greeted them with silence—her father snoring on the sofa, empty bottles, cigarette butts, and clutter everywhere. Anna looked around and shook her head. “I see… Right, let’s have a tidy up,” she said, sweeping rubbish from the table, bagging bottles, opening curtains, shaking out the dirty mat. Annie said suddenly, “Please don’t tell anyone about our house. My dad’s a good man, just can’t get straight. If people find out, they’ll take me away. I don’t want that—he’s a good dad. He just misses Mum.” Anna hugged her. “I won’t tell a soul—I promise.” Time passed. Annie now rushed to school with neatly-plaited hair, smart new coat, backpack, and shiny new boots. “Annie! My mum says your dad’s remarried, is it true?” asked Molly, a classmate shyly. “You look so lovely—and your hair’s all pretty.” “It’s true—my new mum is Auntie Anna,” Annie said proudly, hurrying to school. Andrew had given up drinking—with Anna’s help. Now, he walked tall and smartly dressed beside Anna, strong and confident, always smiling with Annie between them. The years flew. Annie became a university student, coming home on holidays to burst through the front door. “Mum, I’m home!” she’d shout cheerfully. Anna would rush to greet her, wrapping her in a hug, “Hello, my brilliant professor, welcome back!” Both would laugh, and in the evening Andrew would return from work, beaming with happiness at his family. Every love has its own shape.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and immediately shivered; the biting wind sliced right

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When He Got Home from Work, the Cat Was Gone Patrick was a modest lad, no bad habits to his name. On his 25th birthday, his parents gifted him a flat—well, they helped him with the deposit to get his first mortgage. He moved in and started living on his own. As a programmer, Patrick enjoyed a quiet life and kept mostly to himself. To stave off boredom, he decided to adopt a kitten. The little cat had deformed front paws. The previous owners, who had the mother cat, were going to have him put down, but Patrick couldn’t bear the thought and took him in. He named him Handsome, and they got along famously. Patrick rushed home each day to find Handsome waiting for him in the hallway. After a while, Patrick started seeing a clever young woman from work. She quickly charmed him and moved in less than a month later. She took an immediate dislike to Handsome and asked Patrick to give him away, but he refused, explaining how much the cat meant to him. Maria didn’t let up, repeatedly asking Patrick to get rid of the cat. He told her Handsome was staying. Maria argued the cat ruined their image; guests were put off by his paws. Patrick felt torn between his girlfriend and Handsome, loving them both. Incidentally, his parents didn’t approve of his choice. They found Maria cheeky and rude, telling their son not to rush into anything permanent with her. Then Maria’s parents came to visit. Patrick realised he didn’t want a future with Maria when her father laughed at Handsome, calling him a freak as soon as he walked in. Patrick defended his cat, but all evening, Maria and her dad made fun of the cat’s looks, suggesting places to get rid of him, while Maria’s mum joined in the laughter. The following day, when Patrick returned from work, Handsome was gone. When he asked Maria where the cat was, she said she’d taken him to the vet and left him there. Patrick immediately set off searching for Handsome, hunting for five hours… and eventually found him. Handsome purred quietly in Patrick’s arms, content to be reunited. Back home, Patrick told Maria to pack up and leave. He never wanted to see her again; she had become repulsive to him. The next morning, Maria packed her things and left quietly, offended. She never imagined the cat would matter more than her. Now Handsome and Patrick live together, with the cat happily greeting his owner after work.

When he returned home from work, the cat was gone. James was an unassuming fellow, without bad habits

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You Took My Father From Me – Mum, I’ve finally moved in! Can you believe it? Anna cradled her phone between her shoulder and ear, all while wrestling with the stubborn front door lock. The key turned with difficulty, as if the flat itself was testing out its new owner. – Oh darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is everything alright? Her mum’s voice was anxious and excited at the same time. – It’s perfect! Bright, spacious. The balcony’s east facing—just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – I’m here, I’m here! boomed Victor’s voice. – We’ve switched to speakerphone. Well, has the fledgling finally flown the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five—not exactly a fledgling anymore. – You’ll always be my fledgling. Have you checked the locks? The windows—any draughts? The radiators… – Victor, give her a chance to settle in! interrupted her mum. – Anna, just be careful. It’s a new build—heaven knows who your neighbours are. Anna laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. – Mum, this isn’t some shoddy seventies bedsit. It’s a decent place with decent people. Everything’s going to be fine. The next few weeks blurred into one endless marathon between DIY shops, furniture stores, and her own flat. Anna fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up debating which shade of grout would best suit her bathroom tiles. On Saturday she stood in her new living room, inspecting curtain fabric samples, when her phone rang again. – How’s it going? Dad asked. – Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” Thoughts? – I think those are the same colour, just different sales pitches. – Dad, you know nothing about shades! – But I do know electrics. Are the sockets wired properly? Renovations devoured time, money, and patience, but every new touch transformed the empty walls into a real home. Anna picked milk-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own handyman to fit the laminate, and cleverly arranged the furniture to make even the tiny kitchen feel bigger. Once the last builder cleared away the rubble, Anna sat cross-legged on the gleaming living room floor. Soft light fell through her new curtains; the air smelled fresh—with just a hint of paint. Her first real home… Anna met her neighbour three days after the big move. She was fiddling with her keys when the flat opposite clicked open. – Oh, the new girl! A woman in her early thirties poked her head out: short hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. – I’m Alison. I live right across from you. So, neighbours now! – Anna. Lovely to meet you. – If you ever need sugar, salt, or just a natter—knock away. Being alone in a new block’s weird to start with, I remember. Alison was easy company. They drank tea in Anna’s kitchen, swapping tales about dodgy lettings and the quirks of their new building. Alison was a fount of useful information: where to get decent broadband, which plumber did a good job for a fair price, which local shop had the best fresh veg. – Listen, I’ve got a recipe for apple cake—it’s out of this world! Alison scrolled her phone. – Takes half an hour, tastes like you spent all day baking. – Oooh, send it! I haven’t tried out my oven yet. Days became weeks, and Anna counted herself lucky to have such a friendly neighbour. They kept bumping into each other on the landing, occasionally popped round for coffee, even swapped books. On Saturday, Victor dropped by, tools in hand, to help with the shelf that refused to stay put. – You got the wrong rawl plugs, he said, peering at the fittings. – These are for plasterboard; you need concrete. I’ve got proper ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf was perfectly fixed. Victor packed away his tools, inspected his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction. – That’ll hold for twenty years now. – Dad, you’re a legend! Anna hugged him. They headed downstairs, chatting about work and life. Victor asked about her job; Anna grumbled about her new boss who kept missing deadlines and losing papers. Outside their block, Alison appeared laden with supermarket bags. – Oh, hello! Anna waved. – Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison—my neighbour I told you about. – Pleased to meet you, Victor said, wearing his usual easy smile. Alison paused oddly, her eyes flicking between Victor and Anna. Her smile turned stiff—almost pasted on. – Likewise, was all she said before hurrying inside. After that, everything changed. The next morning, Anna bumped into Alison on the landing and greeted her as usual but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited Alison for tea—Alison made an excuse and barely listened. Then the complaints started. The first time, the community officer knocked at nine at night. – We’ve received reports of excessive noise—loud music and disturbance. – What music? Anna was taken aback. – I was reading a book! – Well, the neighbours have complained… Next came more complaints—footsteps, constant banging, music at night. The officer appeared regularly, each time apologising and shrugging helplessly. Anna knew where the complaints were coming from—but not why. Every morning became a lottery—what now? Egg shells smeared on the door? Coffee grounds wedged in the frame? Potato peelings thoughtfully tucked under her doormat? She started rising half an hour earlier just to clean up before work. Her hands were raw from cleaning products, and the lump in her throat never quite went away. – This can’t go on, she muttered one night, researching a video peephole online. The installation took twenty minutes—a tiny camera hidden inside what looked like an ordinary door viewer. Anna synced it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At three a.m., her phone buzzed with movement. Anna stared in disbelief as Alison—dressed in dressing gown and slippers—methodically smeared a dark mess across her door. Calm, precise—like a chore she’d repeated many times. The next night, Anna stayed up, listening for every sound in the hallway, and at half past two, she heard a rustling outside. Anna yanked open the door. Alison froze, a leaking bag in hand. – What did I ever do to you? Anna surprised herself at how pitiful her voice sounded. – Why are you doing this to me? Alison slowly lowered the bag. Her features twisted, beautiful face grimacing into a mask of old bitterness. – You? You never did anything. But your daddy… She almost shouted, careless of anyone listening. – Because he’s my father too! Only he cared for you—cherished you—while he abandoned me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called! Mum and I scraped by while he played happy families with your mum! So, really, you took my father from me! Anna staggered back, bumping into her doorframe. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Sloane and a daughter Alison—who he discarded like rubbish! Anna slammed the door, sinking to the floor. One thought spun in her head: Not true, not true, not true. Dad couldn’t have. He couldn’t. The next morning she went straight to her parents’ house. All the way she rehearsed what to say, but when she saw her dad—calm as ever, reading the paper—her words stuck. – Anna! What a surprise! Victor stood and smiled. – Mum’s out shopping, but she’ll be back soon. – Dad, I need to ask… Anna sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. – Do you know a woman called Marina Sloane? Victor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands. – How do you… – Her daughter—my neighbour. The one you met. She says you’re her father. Silence. It seemed to last forever. – Let’s go see her, Victor said abruptly. – Now. This needs sorting out. The drive to Anna’s flat took forty minutes. Both were silent. Anna stared out the window, struggling to piece together her shattered world. Alison opened instantly, as if waiting for them. She shot them both a hard look, but let them in. – Come to confess, Victor? Thirty years late? – I’ve come to explain, Victor pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket. – Read this. Alison snatched it, suspicious. Her face shifted as she read—anger to shock, shock to confusion. – What…? – DNA test result, Victor said calmly. – I took it when your mother filed for child support in court. Test showed—I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter. Alison dropped the paper. Anna left with her father. At home, she moved to him, burying her face in his jacket. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I believed it. Victor stroked her hair—just like when she came to him after playground fights as a little girl. – You’ve nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. Other people are to blame. Things were never settled with Alison. But Anna didn’t want to try. After everything, any respect for her neighbour was gone forever…

She Took My Father “Mother, Ive moved in! Can you believe it, at last!” Emily pressed her