The Girl from Downstairs
Victor glanced at the clock with a scowl—the morning had barely begun, and already the day was ruined. Instead of suitcases, plane tickets, and a long-awaited holiday by the sea with Eliza, he found himself trudging back into the musty stairwell of his old five-story block of flats. Same old story. His sister Valerie, tears, a thermometer, and the usual plea: “Just sit with the kids, I’ve got no one else to turn to…”
He didn’t want to. Truthfully, he wanted to be the bloke on holiday, with a woman by his side and a cocktail in his hand. Instead, he had two screeching nephews, a backpack full of toys, and the lingering scent of last night’s ale from the neighbour who gasped when she opened her door.
“Vic, what’s with the little ’uns? You gone and gotten married?”
Katie—his neighbour from downstairs. Fiery-haired, quick-witted, with fox-like eyes. He’d flooded her flat twice before the landlord finally fixed the pipes. Her mum, kind as can be, never asked for a penny, but Katie had never stopped teasing him since. Though to him, she still looked hardly old enough to be out of school.
“Shouldn’t you be in class? I’ll tell your mother!” he smirked, watching her cheeks flush.
“Finished college, actually! Got a job starting soon!” she shot back, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Right, proper truant, you are. Take a look in the mirror!”
They laughed, and Katie slipped inside while Victor fetched his car—an old but reliable thing, bought on finance. Eliza had scoffed, “Could’ve got something better.” But he was proud of it anyway. Stubborn, that’s what he was. He’d have it all—flat, car, status, Eliza.
But not today.
Today was traffic jams, sticky seats, wailing kids in the back, and his sister in tears.
“Sorry, Vic, really, there’s no one else…”
Valerie was in hospital, and their mum had taken ill from the stress. As for their father—well, Oliver was only a name on paper. Drinking, wandering, disappearing—that’s all he’d ever been good for.
The kids clung to him. “Uncle Vic!” He hugged them, promised ice cream, and drove them to his rented one-bed flat.
Katie caught him again in the stairwell.
“All this yours?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Yeah, picked ’em up at the bus stop,” he grinned. “Turned my back for a second, and there they were.”
The kids giggled, but Katie looked a bit flustered. He quickly corrected himself.
“Joking. These are my nephew and niece. My sister’s poorly, so I’ve got ’em for a bit.”
The flat was chaos within minutes. Victor scrambled eggs, took them to the park, bought them chips and balloons. They adored it. But by the third day, the whining started—little Mary complained of a sore throat, and Nicholas clutched his belly. Tears. “We want Mum.”
A knock at the door. Katie stood there.
“Heard them crying… Need a hand? Finished nursing school, remember?”
She came in, brought out old toys, tucked them in, wrapped Mary’s throat with a scarf, soothed Nicholas’s tummy. Before he could thank her, the lad was fast asleep in her arms.
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll make you a sandwich,” Victor muttered, closing the bedroom door softly.
They sat at the table. Sipping tea, Katie asked, “So… when’s your missus taking them back?”
“My what? Nah, it’s my sister. No kids of my own. Not yet, anyway.”
Katie smiled, and suddenly he saw her—really saw her. Warm. Steady. Nothing like Eliza. Like no one before.
She stayed another day. Then two. Then for good. They took the kids to the park, cooked together, laughed. And when the balloon seller said, “Lovely family you’ve got,” something clenched in Victor’s chest. He looked at Katie, at the kids, and didn’t want it to end.
Eliza rang a week later. Her voice was ice.
“Where are you? Not a word. Typical.”
And all he felt was… nothing.
When Valerie came home, the kids begged, “Uncle Vic, can Katie stay with us? Do you love her?”
Mary, not waiting for an answer, declared, “I know you do. And she loves you. We’ll carry the train at your wedding.”
Katie blushed, smoothing their hair, while Victor caught his reflection and thought, *Thank God for that ginger girl downstairs.*
Pulling up to the house, Valerie and their mum rushed out, took one look at Katie, and clasped their hands.
“Finally found someone, eh? She’s a keeper! Katie, love—welcome to the family!”
Victor just grinned.
The drive home was quiet. Then Katie spoke.
“Your car’s nice. Cosy. And… you’re safe, you know?”
He only asked, “Fancy the park tomorrow? Got your soup left—doesn’t taste right without you.”
Three months later, they married.
Sometimes happiness isn’t where you expect it. Sometimes it lives just downstairs—ginger-haired, with a rucksack and hands kind enough to quiet even a child’s tears.
And Victor knew—this was his family. For good.
