The Neighbour Downstairs—Love from Above
Victor glanced at the clock with irritation—morning had barely begun, and the day was already ruined. Instead of suitcases, tickets, and the long-awaited flight to the seaside with Lisa, he was stuck in the musty stairwell of his old five-storey block. Same as always. His sister Vicky, tears, a thermometer, and the usual plea: *”Please look after the kids, I’ve got no one else to turn to…”*
He didn’t want to. Honestly. He wanted to be the bloke on holiday, with a woman by his side, a cocktail in hand. Instead, he had two squealing nephews, a bag of toys, and the lingering smell of last night’s beer from the neighbour who’d just opened her door and gasped:
“Vic, what’s with the little ones? You gone and got married or something?”
Katie—his downstairs neighbour. Red-haired, quick-witted, with fox-like eyes. He’d flooded her flat twice before the landlords finally fixed the tap. Her mum, a kind woman, never asked for a penny, but ever since, Katie had taken to winking at him. Though to Vic, she still looked like she ought to be in school.
“Shouldn’t you be in class? I’ll tell your mum!” he teased, watching her cheeks flush.
“I’ve finished college! Looking for a job now!” she shot back, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder.
“Right, you look the part—proper truant material. Ever seen yourself in the mirror?”
They laughed, and Katie ducked inside while Vic headed for his car—old but his own, bought on finance. Lisa had scoffed, *”Could’ve got something better.”* But he was proud of it anyway. He was stubborn. One day, he’d have the flat, the car, the status, and Lisa.
But not today.
Today was traffic jams, sticky seats, shrieking kids in the back, and his sister in tears:
“Sorry, Vic, really, I’ve got no one else…”
Vicky was in hospital, their mum had taken ill from the stress, and their dad? Well, Alan was only a father on paper. Drinking, disappearing—that’s all he was 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 bumped into them again in the hallway.
“All yours?” Her eyes widened.
“Yep, found ’em at the bus stop,” he grinned. “Looked the other way for a second—now I’m stuck with ’em.”
The kids giggled, but Katie frowned. He corrected himself:
“Just joking. These are my niece and nephew. Sister’s in hospital—I’m minding them.”
The flat turned into chaos the moment they stepped in. Vic made them omelettes, took them to the park, bought them burgers and balloons. They adored it. But by day three, the whinging started: Lily complained of a sore throat, Noah of a stomachache. Tears, wails, *”We want Mummy!”*
Then, a knock at the door. Katie.
“Heard them crying… Need a hand? I trained as a nurse.”
She stepped in, brought out old toys, quietly settled the kids, wrapped Lily’s throat in a scarf, rubbed Noah’s tummy. Before Vic could even say *”thanks,”* the boy was asleep in her arms.
“Come to the kitchen, I’ll make you sandwiches,” he muttered, shutting the bedroom door behind them.
They sat at the table. Sipping tea, Katie asked,
“Your… when’s she taking them back?”
“My what? Nah, these are my sister’s kids. Don’t have any myself. Don’t expect to, either.”
Katie smiled, and suddenly, he saw her properly—real, warm, cosy. Nothing like Lisa. Nothing like anyone before.
She stayed another day. Then two. Then for good. Together, they took the kids out, cooked, laughed. And in the park, when the balloon seller said, *”Lovely family you’ve got!”*—Vic’s chest tightened. He looked at Katie, at the kids, and didn’t want it to end.
Lisa called a week later. Her voice was ice.
“Where are you? Ghosting me now? Right. Got the message.”
And all he felt was… nothing.
When Vicky was discharged, the kids begged:
“Uncle Vic, can Katie stay? Do you love her?”
Lily, impatient, blurted:
“I know you do! And she loves you! We’ll carry the train at your wedding!”
Katie went pink, smoothing their hair awkwardly, while Vic caught his reflection and thought: *”Cheers for her, the redhead downstairs.”*
Pulling up at the house, Vicky and their mum stepped out, saw Katie—and gasped.
“Finally found someone decent! Katie, love? Welcome to the family!”
Vic just smiled.
They drove back in silence. Then Katie suddenly said:
“Your car’s really cosy. And… you’re solid, you know?”
He only asked:
“Park tomorrow? Lunch at mine? Your soup’s still there—doesn’t taste right without you.”
Three months later, they married.
Sometimes happiness isn’t where you expect it. Sometimes it’s just a floor below—red-haired, rucksack in tow, with gentle hands that hush even children’s tears.
And Vic knew: *this* was his family. For keeps.
