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You Stole My Dad: “Mum, I’ve just moved in! Can you believe it—finally!” Oksana clutched her phone between her shoulder and ear, wrestling with a stubborn lock that seemed to be testing its new owner’s resolve. “Darling, thank goodness! And the flat—how is it, is everything alright?” Her mother’s voice was anxious, excited. “Perfect! Light, spacious. Balcony faces east—just how I wanted. Is Dad there?” “Right here!” came Victor’s bass through the speaker. “She’s got us on speaker. Well, has my little bird left the nest?” “Dad, I’m twenty-five—hardly a chick.” “You’ll always be my chick. Checked the locks? Are the windows sealed? Radiators—” “Victor, let her settle in!” her mother interrupted. “Oksana, be cautious. Newbuilds, you never know who lives next door.” Oksana laughed, finally mastering the lock and pushing open the door. “Mum, this isn’t some dodgy 70s bedsit. Nice flat, nice neighbours. I’ll be fine.” The next weeks blurred in a constant marathon between hardware stores, furniture showrooms, and her new flat. Oksana fell asleep buried in wallpaper catalogues and woke up debating grout shades for the bathroom. On Saturday, she was staring at curtain fabrics in the lounge when her phone beeped to life. “So, how’s it going?” her dad asked. “Slow but steady. Curtains are the current battle—‘Ivory’ or ‘Baked Milk’, what do you reckon?” “I reckon it’s the same colour with a fancy name.” “Dad, you just don’t get shades!” “But I get electrics—your sockets sorted?” Renovation devoured time, money, and nerves, but each new touch turned cold walls into a true home. She chose the milky beige wallpaper, found the right flooring guy, arranged furniture to make her poky kitchen seem bigger. When the last builder cleared away the dust, Oksana sat on the gleaming floor, bathed in mellow light through brand-new curtains, the air tinged with fresh paint. Her first real home… She met her neighbour three days after the move, fussing with the keys when the opposite door clicked open. “Oh, the newbie!” chirped a thirty-something woman with a pixie cut, bold lipstick and curious eyes. “I’m Alison. Right opposite, so now we’re neighbours.” “Oksana. Pleased to meet you.” “If you need sugar, salt, or just a chat—knock away. It’s weird being new in a block, I remember.” Alison was a joy to talk with. They drank tea in Oksana’s kitchen, debated building management quirks and talked floor plans. She shared tips—best broadband, affordable plumbers, where to buy the freshest groceries. “I’ve got the most epic apple pie recipe!” Alison scrolled on her phone. “Will send—it takes half an hour, tastes like all-day baking.” “Yes please—I haven’t tried the oven yet!” Weeks rolled by, and Oksana was glad to have such an open neighbour. They bumped into each other in the hall, popped in for coffee, swapped books. Saturday, Victor came by to help with a shelf that refused to stay up. “Wrong plugs—these are for plasterboard, yours is solid concrete. Good thing I’ve got proper ones in the car.” An hour later, the shelf was up and secure. Victor gave it a critical once-over and nodded with satisfaction. “There you go—should last twenty years.” “Dad, you’re the best!” Oksana hugged him. They left chatting about life; Victor fussed about work, Oksana moaned about her scatterbrained boss. Outside, Alison appeared, bags of shopping in hand. “Hi!” Oksana called. “This is my dad, Victor. Dad, Alison—my neighbour I told you about.” “Pleasure to meet you,” Victor said, smiling warmly. Alison froze for a heartbeat, her gaze flicking between Victor and Oksana. Her smile stiffened, as if glued on. “Likewise,” she muttered, then darted into the entrance. After that, everything changed. The next morning, Oksana greeted Alison in the hallway, but received only a frosty nod. Two days later, she tried inviting her for tea—Alison brushed her off before she’d finished. Then came the complaints… The police knocked at 9 p.m. “We’ve had a noise complaint—loud music, banging.” “Music? I was reading!” Oksana spluttered. “Well, the neighbours have reported…” Complaints poured in—management got letters about ‘intolerable stomping’, ‘constant banging’, ‘late-night music’. The police appeared regularly, apologetic and helpless. Oksana knew who was behind it. But why? Each morning became a lottery. What would it be today? Eggshell smeared on her door? Coffee grounds packed into the frame? Potato peelings tucked under the mat? She woke half an hour earlier each day to clear the mess before work, hands stinging from cleaning products, her throat tight with anxiety. “This can’t go on,” she muttered, browsing video doorbells online. Fitting one took twenty minutes. The discreet camera watched over the landing, streamed to her phone. Oksana waited. Not for long. At 3 a.m., her phone flashed—a movement alert. Disbelieving, Oksana watched Alison, in slippers and dressing gown, methodically smearing something dark on her door. Calm, practiced, as if routine. Next night, Oksana sat in wait. Close to three, a faint shuffle outside. She flung the door open. Alison froze, clutching a sloshing bag. “What did I ever do to you?” Oksana’s own voice sounded pitiful. “Why are you doing this?” Alison gently set the bag on the floor. Her face twisted, morphing into an old mask of spite. “You? You did nothing. But your daddy—” “What does my dad have to do with it?” “He’s my dad too!” Alison almost shouted, uncaring who heard. “He raised you, spoiled you, but dumped me at three! Not a penny, never called! My mum and I barely scraped by while he built his ‘perfect family’ with your mum! So you, basically, stole my dad!” Oksana shrank against the door-frame. “You’re lying…” “Ask him! Ask if he remembers Marina Sutherland and little Alison—the ones he threw away!” Oksana slammed the door and sank down, head spinning. No—surely not. Dad wouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Next morning, she went to her parents’ place. On the way, she rehearsed what to ask, but seeing her calm father with his newspaper, words caught in her throat. “Oksana! Surprise!” Victor jumped up. “Mum’s out shopping—she’ll be back soon.” “Dad, I have to ask…” Oksana sat, twisting her bag strap. “Do you know a woman called Marina Sutherland?” Victor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands. “How do you…” “Her daughter is my neighbour. The one I introduced. She says you’re her father.” The silence dragged forever. “Let’s go see her,” Victor said sharply. “Now. I have to set things straight.” The car ride to the block was silent. Oksana stared out at the passing houses, mind racing to piece together a broken world. Alison opened the door immediately, giving them both a heavy look, but stood aside. “So, here to make up for thirty years?” she spat at Victor. “I’m here to set the record straight.” Victor pulled a folded paper from his jacket. “Read this.” Alison snatched it, suspicion on her face. As she read, her expression shifted from rage, to confusion, to shock. “This… what is this?” “A DNA test,” Victor replied calmly. “I did it when your mum tried to get child support through court. The result: I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter.” The paper slipped from Alison’s hands… Oksana and her father left Alison’s flat. Back home, Oksana hugged Victor tight, burying her face in the coarse weave of his jacket. “I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I even doubted.” Victor stroked her hair—like he always did when she’d run to him after childhood fights. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, love. Others are to blame for this.” Things with her neighbour never recovered. After everything Alison had done, Oksana knew there was no respect left to rebuild…

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“We’ll Just Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Pushy In-Laws, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday. My one morning to finally catch up on sleep after closing my quarterly report, not to play hostess. My husband Igor’s sister, Svetlana, looked ready to storm the Bastille on the intercom screen, with her three scruffy kids looming behind her. “Igor!” I barked, not picking up. “Your family. Your problem.” He stumbled from the bedroom, pulling on shorts backwards: if I was speaking in that tone, his family had officially reached the bottom of my patience. While he muttered into the handset, I stood in the hallway, arms folded across my chest. My flat—my rules. This three-bed in the centre of London was mine alone for years before marriage. The last thing I wanted was relatives treating it like a boarding house. The door flung open, and my fragrance-infused, immaculate hallway was invaded. Svetlana, loaded with bags, didn’t even greet me. She nudged me aside as if I were a piece of forgotten furniture. “Oh, thank God, we made it!” she sighed, dumping her bags on my Italian tiles. “Alina, what are you doing standing there? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said flatly, and Igor shrank into himself, recognising Defcon 1. “What is going on?” “He didn’t tell you?” She widened her eyes. “We’ve got a massive renovation! Pipes, floors ripped up—it’s unliveable. We’ll just stay here for a week. Loads of space, you’ll hardly notice us.” I glared at Igor. He inspected the ceiling—execution imminent. “Igor?” “Come on, Alina, she’s my sister. Can’t have the kids in a building site. One week, promise.” “One week. Seven days. You feed yourselves. Kids don’t run riot, don’t touch the walls, and stay away from my office. Silence after ten, understood?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’re like some prison warden. Fine. Where do we sleep? Hope it’s not the floor!” And so the chaos began. A week turned into two, then three. My lovingly designed flat became a pigsty—muddy shoes everywhere, fat stains on my countertops, crumbs, sticky patches. Svetlana took over like she owned the place. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she whined one evening. “The kids need yogurt, and we’d love a steak. You earn well—you can look after family!” “You’ve got a card and shops, use them,” I replied, not glancing up from my laptop. “Tesco delivers 24/7.” “Miser,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take it with you when you’re dead, you know.” But things reached breaking point when I came home early and found my nephew bouncing on my Tempur mattress and his sister drawing on the wall—with my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “Out!” I roared, scattering kids everywhere. Svetlana bolted in, shrugged at the carnage: “They’re just kids—who cares about a mark on the wall? You can wash it off. And that lipstick? You’ll buy yourself another. Listen, the builders are useless—so we’re staying until summer. It’ll be fun, you two just rattle around here anyway!” Igor stood mute. Useless. I said nothing, just walked away to avoid a murder charge. Later, Svetlana left her phone on the table to go shower. A message flashed up: “Svetlana, next month’s rent received, tenants happy, want to extend until August? – Marina Lettings.” And a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Click. It all made sense. No renovations—she was renting her place and living free off me: free food, no bills, making a profit. Genius—on my dime. I photographed her screen, hands steady, rage replaced with icy clarity. “Igor, get in here,” I called. He read the photo. Red, then white. “Maybe it’s a mix-up?” “The real mix-up is you not kicking them out yet. You’ve got a choice. Either by tomorrow lunchtime she and the kids are gone, or you all are. Take your mother, too, for good measure.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or The Ritz, if they can afford it.” Next morning, Svetlana left for ‘shopping’—probably with her rent money—leaving the kids with Igor, who took them out. “Take them to the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the place for parasites.” Once they’d left, I made two calls: one to a locksmith, one to the local police. Hospitality over. Time for a purge. By the time Svetlana returned, loaded with Selfridges bags, the locksmith had changed the locks and her stuff was bagged—five heavy rubbish sacks and two suitcases. She found me and a police officer at the door. “What’s this?” she screeched. “Alina, are you mad? These are my things!” “Exactly. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She bolted for the door, blocked by the constable. “Do you live here? On the tenancy register?” “I’m… my brother’s sister. We’re guests!” She turned red and purple, dialled Igor frantically—straight to voicemail. “You have no right! We have nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Say hi to Marina. And ask if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll need to evict them to live in your own place?” Air left her like a punctured balloon. “You… how?” “You might want to lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived off me to save for a new car? Clever. Now listen: take your bags and get out. I ever see you or your kids near my building again, I’ll inform HMRC about illegal letting. And the police: I’m missing a gold ring, easy to find in your bags if they feel like a search.” (The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know.) “You evil cow,” she hissed. “God will judge.” “God’s busy. I’m finally free—and so is my flat.” She scrambled for her bags, swearing, fumbled for a taxi as the constable watched. When the lift doors closed behind her and her shattered plans, I thanked the officer. He grinned. “Call if you need me—or just get good locks.” Lock clicked behind me—delicious, solid. The cleaner was nearly finished. Igor returned alone, looked round like he expected a trap. “She’s gone,” he said. “I know.” “She was screaming about you—” “Don’t care what the rats say as they’re thrown off the ship.” I drank a perfect coffee in blissful silence. My kitchen, my fridge, my rules. No lipstick murals left, no shouting, no chaos. “Did you know about the letting?” I asked. “Never! I swear. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet. Listen, Igor. This was the last time. One more stunt like this from your family and your bags will be right beside theirs. Understood?” He nodded, pale and fast. He knew I wasn’t joking. The coffee was hot, strong, and—finally—enjoyed in perfect, peaceful silence in my own flat. My crown didn’t pinch. It fit perfectly.

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