“Uncle John, have you lost your mind? This is my room!” Mark Stevens stood in the doorway, keys clutched tightly in his hand, unable to believe what he was seeing.
“Was yours,” replied Ethan without glancing up from his phone, sprawled on the sofa. “Now it’s mine. Mum said so.”
“What do you mean, ‘Mum’?” Mark exploded. “I’m not your uncle! Where’s my bed? Where are my things?”
Ethan shrugged, still glued to his screen. “Bed’s on the balcony now. Stuff’s in boxes. Mum reckons that’s plenty of space for you.”
Mark felt the ground shift beneath him. He’d lived in this flat for twenty years—this room had been his sanctuary, his fortress. And now some arrogant eighteen-year-old was rearranging it like he owned the place.
“Lucy!” he bellowed, storming toward the kitchen. “Lucy, get in here now!”
His wife appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. There wasn’t a hint of guilt on her face.
“What’s the matter, John? Why the shouting?”
“What’s the matter?” Mark was beyond furious. “Your son’s taken my room! My things are on the balcony—what’s this nonsense?”
“John, calm down,” Lucy said softly, though her tone was firm. “Ethan’s started uni, he needs a proper study space. You’ll be fine on the balcony—it’s cosy, I’ve set it up nicely.”
“The balcony?” Mark couldn’t believe his ears. “Lucy, have you gone mad? This is my flat! I’m the one on the lease. I live here!”
“Our flat,” she corrected. “And Ethan lives here now. Permanently.”
Mark sank onto a chair. When he’d married Lucy two years ago, she’d mentioned she had a son who lived with his father. The lad visited on weekends, kept to himself, never caused trouble. Mark had even hoped they might get along.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked wearily.
“What was there to say?” Lucy sat across from him. “Ethan’s grown up—he needs his own space. And you’ll manage.”
“Manage…” Mark echoed. “Lucy, I work shifts—I need proper sleep. The balcony’s freezing in winter, stuffy in summer.”
“You’ll get used to it. Ethan’s a good lad—he won’t bother you.”
Mark studied his wife. Two years ago, she’d been his salvation. After years alone, after the divorce that took his daughter to another city, Lucy had been a breath of fresh air—a kind, forty-five-year-old accountant who could cook. They’d met in the park, feeding pigeons.
“I’ve got a son,” she’d said then. “He lives with his dad, but he visits sometimes.”
“No problem,” Mark had replied. “I like kids.”
And he had. His own daughter, Emily, rarely visited—his ex-wife made sure of that. Ethan had seemed decent enough—polite, quiet.
“Listen, Lucy,” Mark tried again, calmer. “Couldn’t we rearrange things? Give Ethan the sofa bed in the lounge, keep my room as it was?”
“No,” Lucy shook her head. “Ethan needs quiet for studying. You just watch telly anyway.”
“Just watch telly…” Something inside Mark snapped. “Lucy, after a shift, I need rest. Proper rest.”
“You’re selfish, John. Only thinking of yourself. I’ve got a son to look after.”
Mark stood and walked to the balcony. His bed was there, crammed between boxes. The glassed-in space still felt damp. He sat on the mattress and buried his face in his hands.
That evening, Ethan came to the kitchen for dinner. Mark sipped his tea.
“Ethan, let’s talk. Man to man. Maybe we can sort something out?”
“Sort what?” Ethan grabbed a yoghurt from the fridge. “Got my room now, you’ve got yours. Fair’s fair.”
“My room’s on the balcony,” Mark pointed out.
“So? More space for you and Mum.”
“Ethan, uni’s great—I get that. But you can’t just push people around. We could’ve talked this through.”
“Talked what through?” Ethan smirked. “You’re not family. Mum’s mum—you’re just her husband. For now.”
“For now?” Mark tensed.
“Yeah, you think this is forever?” Ethan shrugged. “Mum’s still young, pretty. Might find someone better.”
Mark’s face burned, but he swallowed his anger. No point causing a scene.
A week passed. Mark barely slept, caught a cold. At work, his colleague noticed.
“John, what’s eating you?”
“Home troubles. Lucy’s son took my room—kicked me to the balcony.”
“How’d he do that? It’s your flat.”
“Was my flat. Now it’s ‘ours.’ And apparently, the kid’s got more rights than I do.”
“Wait—you did sign a prenup, right?”
“Of course we got married properly.”
“Then the flat’s half yours. Doesn’t mean the lad can turf you out.”
“Try telling them that.”
At home, things got worse. Ethan blasted music, had mates over. Lucy dismissed Mark’s complaints.
“John, they’re just smoking in your old room. Open a window.”
“They left beer bottles everywhere!”
“Boys will be boys.”
“And where do I ‘be a man’? On the balcony?”
“You’re grown. You don’t need fun.”
Mark barely recognised Lucy. Where was the woman who’d made him roast dinners, rubbed his shoulders after late shifts?
One night, after a night shift, Ethan’s music shook the walls. Mark knocked.
“Turn it down!”
“Can’t hear you!” Ethan yelled.
“I said turn it off! People are sleeping!”
The door swung open. Ethan grinned.
“Go sleep in the kitchen—quieter there.”
“I can’t sleep in the kitchen!”
“Then buy your own flat. This one’s taken.”
“You little—!” Mark stepped forward, but Ethan slammed the door, locked it.
“Mum! He’s trying to hit me!”
Lucy rushed out. “John! Why’re you shouting at him?”
“At him? He’s eighteen—a grown man! And he’s stolen my room!”
“He’s a student!”
“Student? He games all day!”
“None of your business,” Lucy said coldly. “Don’t like it? Leave.”
“This is my flat,” Mark said softly.
“Our flat. And my son lives here.”
Mark knew he’d lost. He sat on the sofa, eyes closed. How had he misjudged her so badly?
Next day, the lock on his old room was changed. Ethan was inside, gaming.
“Why the new lock?” Mark asked Lucy.
“Ethan wanted it. Says you barge in.”
“I used to live there.”
“Now he does.”
Mark sat silently at the kitchen table. Then he stood, walked to the balcony, and started packing.
“What’re you doing?” Lucy asked.
“Leaving.”
“Don’t be childish. So you sleep on the balcony—big deal.”
“I won’t sleep on a balcony in my own flat. Guess it’s not mine anymore.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“My mum’s. She’s got space.”
“And the flat?”
“Keep it. Seems you’ve already decided it’s yours.”
Silence. Ethan peered out.
“Finally,” he said. “Always in the way.”
Mark looked at him, then Lucy. She turned away.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Best of luck.”
He grabbed his bag. At the door, he turned.
“Lucy… I did love you.”
“And I loved you,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Loved,” he repeated. “Now Ethan matters more.”
“Children always do.”
“More than marriage?”
“Family’s me and Ethan. You were… temporary.”
Mark nodded and left. The lock clicked behind him.
On the landing, he called his mother.
“Mum? Can I stay a few days?”
“Of course, love. What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there,” he said, starting down the stairs.
Inside, Ethan was already phoning mates, planning a party to celebrate the “annoying stepdad” moving out.
