The Neighbour Downstairs — Love from Above
James glanced at his watch with a sigh—morning had barely begun, and the day was already ruined. Instead of suitcases, plane tickets, and a long-awaited holiday by the sea with Emily, he found himself trudging back into the musty hallway of his old council flat. Same as always. His sister Lucy, in tears, thermometer in hand, pleading, “Please look after the kids, I’ve got no one else to turn to…”
He didn’t want to. Really. He wanted to be the bloke on holiday, with a woman by his side, cocktail in hand. But instead—two screeching nephews, a backpack of toys, and the faint whiff of last night’s drinks from the neighbour who swung her door open and gasped:
“Jamie, what’s with the ankle-biters? You gone and got married or something?”
Sophie—the neighbour downstairs. Fiery-haired, sharp as a tack, with eyes like a fox. He’d flooded her flat twice before the landlord finally fixed the tap. Her mum, a kind soul, hadn’t asked for a penny, but Sophie had been winking at him ever since. Not that he’d noticed—she still looked like she belonged in school.
“Shouldn’t you be in class? I’ll tell your mum,” he teased, watching her flush.
“I’ve finished college, actually! Job hunting now!” she shot back, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Sure, look like a proper truant to me. Ever checked a mirror?”
They laughed, and Sophie ducked inside while James headed for his car—old but his own, bought on finance. Emily had scoffed, “Could’ve got something better.” But he was proud of it nonetheless. Stubborn, that’s him. A flat, a car, status, Emily—he’d have it all.
Just not today.
Today was traffic, sticky seats, shrieking kids in the back, and Lucy in tears:
“Sorry, Jamie, I’ve got no one else…”
Lucy was in hospital, their mum unwell from the stress. And their dad? Well, Richard was only a father on paper. Drinking, disappearing—that’s all he was good for.
The kids clung to him. “Uncle Jamie!” He hugged them, promised ice cream, and drove them to his rented studio.
Sophie bumped into them in the hallway again.
“All yours?” she blinked.
“Yep, found ’em at the bus stop,” he smirked. “Looked away for a second, and bam—stuck with ’em.”
The kids giggled. Sophie bit her lip, and he corrected himself:
“Joke. They’re my sister’s. She’s in hospital—I’m babysitting.”
The flat descended into chaos. James made them scrambled eggs, took them to the park, bought them burgers and balloons. They were over the moon. But by day three, the whinging started. Lily complained about her throat, Oliver groaned about his tummy. Tears. “We want Mum!”
Then a knock.
Sophie stood at the door.
“Heard them crying… Need help? I did my nursing cert.”
She stepped in, brought old toys, quietly tucked them in, wrapped Lily’s throat with a scarf, rubbed Oliver’s tummy. Before James could say “cheers,” the boy was asleep in her arms.
“Kitchen,” he muttered, shutting the bedroom door. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
They sat. Sipping tea, Sophie asked,
“So when’s… your wife taking them back?”
“My what? Nah, my sister’s kids. Don’t have any of my own. Not yet.”
Sophie smiled, and it hit him—she was real. Cosy. Warm. Not like Emily. Not like anyone before.
She stayed another day. Then two. Then—permanently. They walked the kids, cooked, laughed. At the park, when the balloon seller said, “Lovely family you’ve got,” James’s chest tightened. He looked at Sophie, at the kids, and didn’t want it to end.
Emily called a week later. Her voice was ice.
“Where are you? Radio silence. Figures.”
And all he felt? Nothing.
When Lucy came home, the kids begged,
“Uncle Jamie, can Sophie stay? Do you love her?”
Lily, impatient, declared,
“I know you do. And she loves you. We’ll carry the flowers on your wedding.”
Sophie reddened, smoothing their hair as James caught his reflection and thought, *Thank God for the ginger girl downstairs.*
Pulling up to the house, Lucy and Mum gasped at Sophie—”Finally! She’s lovely! Sophie? Welcome to the family!”
James just grinned.
The drive back was quiet. Then Sophie whispered,
“Your car’s nice. Cosy. And… you feel safe.”
He cleared his throat.
“Park tomorrow? Lunch at mine? Your soup’s still in the fridge—tastes wrong without you.”
Three months later, they married.
Sometimes happiness isn’t where you expect it. Sometimes it lives a floor below—ginger, with a backpack and gentle hands that hush even children’s tears.
And James knew: this was his family. For good.
