Stole My Father: – Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it—finally! Oksana balanced her phone between shoulder and ear while wrestling with an uncooperative lock. The key turned stiffly, as if testing the new owner. – Oh darling, thank goodness! And the flat—everything okay? Her mother’s voice was anxious but thrilled. – It’s perfect! Bright, spacious. The balcony faces east, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – I’m here, I’m here! boomed Victor’s deep voice. They’d switched to speakerphone. All settled, little fledgling left the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five—hardly a fledgling! – You’ll always be my chick. Checked the locks? No draughty windows? Radiators working— – Victor, let her settle in! Mum interrupted. Oksana, be careful—it’s a new build, who knows who lives next door. Oksana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. – Mum, it’s not a seventies council block. Nice flat, nice neighbours. I’ll be fine. Weeks blurred into a marathon of DIY shops, furniture stores, and her new flat. She fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues next to her pillow, woke up pondering the best grout colour for the bathroom tiles. That Saturday, standing in her living room, Oksana was comparing curtain fabrics when her phone buzzed again. – How’s it going? Dad checked in. – Slowly but surely. Choosing curtains today. Torn between ‘ivory’ and ‘baked milk’—any thoughts? – Same colour, just different sales pitch. – Dad, you know nothing about shades! – But I know electrics. Wired the sockets properly? Renovation devoured time, money, and nerves, but with every new touch, the bare walls began to feel like home. Oksana chose the milky-beige bedroom wallpaper, hired the laminate fitter herself, even reconfigured the furniture to make her tiny kitchen feel bigger. When the last builder cleared away the leftover rubble, Oksana sat down on the gleaming lounge floor, bathed in soft light pouring through brand new curtains, smelling of freshness and a hint of paint. It was hers, her very own home… She met her neighbour three days after moving in—while fiddling with her keys at the door, she heard the flat across the hall unlock. – Oh, the newbie! A woman in her thirties peered out, short hair, bright lipstick, curious eyes. – I’m Alina. Live right opposite—so we’re neighbours now. – Oksana. Nice to meet you. – If you ever need salt, sugar, or a chat, knock anytime. It’s weird at first living alone here—I remember. Alina turned out to be great company. They drank tea in Oksana’s kitchen, swapped stories about the management company, quirks of their floor’s layout. Alina always knew the best broadband, the handiest plumber, and which corner shop had the freshest bread. – Seriously, I’ve got a recipe for apple cake—out of this world! Alina thumbed her phone. It takes half an hour, tastes like you’ve been baking all day. – Yes please! Haven’t tested my oven yet. Days became weeks, and Oksana was glad to have such an open neighbour. They crossed paths on the landing, shared quick coffees, even swapped books. On Saturday, Victor arrived—to wrestle with a bookshelf that stubbornly refused to stay up. – You’ve got the wrong plugs, Dad observed. These are for plasterboard; you’ve got concrete walls. Hang on, real ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf hung perfectly straight. Victor packed his tools, inspected his handiwork, and nodded with satisfaction. – That’ll last a good twenty years. – You’re the best, Dad! Oksana hugged him. Together, they walked downstairs, chatting about work and her scatterbrained new manager who lost track of deadlines and paperwork. At the entrance they met Alina, arms loaded with supermarket bags. – Hi! Oksana waved. Meet my dad, Victor. Dad—this is Alina, the neighbour I told you about. – Lovely to meet you, Victor smiled warmly. Alina froze a second, her eyes flicking between Victor’s face and Oksana’s. Her smile became oddly stiff, almost pasted-on. – Likewise, she said quickly and hurried inside. Everything changed after that. The next morning, Oksana bumped into Alina on the landing and greeted her, but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited her for a cuppa—Alina said she was busy, didn’t let her finish. Then came the complaints… The first police visit was at nine at night. – Got a report of loud music, said the apologetic officer. – What music? Oksana was baffled. I was reading! – Well, neighbours are complaining… Letters arrived at the management office about ‘deafening footsteps’, ‘constant banging’, ‘music late at night’. The local police began showing up regularly, always sheepish and shrugging. Oksana knew who was stirring the pot, but not why. Every morning was a lottery—eggshells smeared on the door? Coffee grounds stuffed between the frame and door? A bag of potato peelings tucked under the doormat? She started getting up half an hour early to clean before work. Her hands stung from cleaning products; there was always a sick feeling in her throat. – This can’t go on, she muttered one evening, searching for a video door viewer. She installed it in twenty minutes—a tiny camera hidden in a normal door peephole, streaming everything to her phone. And waited. She didn’t have to wait long. At 3 a.m., her phone alerted her to movement. Oksana couldn’t believe her eyes as Alina—in robe and slippers—methodically smeared something dark over her doorway, careful and practiced as if doing a chore. The next night, Oksana stayed awake, listening for every sound. Around half past two, she heard rustling outside. She threw open the door. Alina froze, clutching a squelching bag. – What have I done to you? Oksana couldn’t believe how small her voice sounded. – Why are you doing this to me? Alina slowly dropped the bag. Her face twisted, beautiful features melting into a mask of old anger. – You? You did nothing. But your precious Daddy— – What’s my father got to do with any of this? – Because he’s my father too! Alina’s voice rose, not caring who heard. He raised you, spoiled you, but he left me when I was three! Never gave us a penny, never called! Mum and I scraped by while he played happy families with your mum. So you—well, you stole my father! Oksana backed away to her doorway, stunned. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Soloviev and her daughter Alina—the ones he threw out like rubbish! Shutting the door, Oksana slid down, mind racing. Not true, not true. Dad couldn’t have. He couldn’t. The next morning, she went to her parents. She rehearsed her question all the way, but the words stuck when she saw her father—calm as ever, reading his paper. – Oksana! What a surprise! Victor stood up. Mum’s at the shops, she’ll be back soon. – Dad, I need to ask you… Oksana perched on the sofa, tugging her bag strap. Do you know a woman named Marina Soloviev? Victor went rigid. The newspaper slipped to the floor. – How did you— – Her daughter’s my neighbour. The one I introduced you to. She says you’re her father. Silence lasted forever. – We’re going to see her, Victor said abruptly. Right now. I need to put this right. Forty minutes later, they were outside Alina’s flat, silent throughout the drive. Oksana stared at passing houses, her world broken into pieces. Alina opened the door at once, as if prepared. She glared at them, but stepped aside. – Come to confess? Thirty years late? – Come to explain. Victor pulled a folded sheet from his jacket. Read this. Alina snatched it, distrustful. As she read, her anger slipped into confusion, her confusion into shock. – What…? – DNA results, Victor answered quietly. Your mum tried to sue me for child support. The test showed—I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter. Alina dropped the paper. Oksana and Victor left. Back home, Oksana hugged her dad tightly. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I doubted you. Victor stroked her hair—just like when she’d run to him as a child after a fight with her friends. – You have nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. It’s other people who are to blame. Things with Alina never improved. And after all her spite, Oksana had no desire to mend things—a woman like that could never earn her respect again…

Stole My Father

Mum, Ive finally moved in! Can you believe it?

Claire pressed her mobile between shoulder and ear, wrestling with the stubborn lock on her new flat. The key turned stiffly, as if testing whether the new owner was up to scratch.

Oh, darling, thank goodness! her mothers voice trembled with excitement and worry. And the flat? Is everything okay?

Its perfect! Bright, spacious, just as I hoped. Eastern-facing balcony, too. Is Dad with you?

Here I am, here I am! boomed the voice of Richard. Mums got me on speaker. So, the fledgling is flying the nest?

Dad, Im twenty-five. Hardly a fledgling anymore.

Youll always be my fledgling. Have you checked the locks? Any draughts from the windows? The radiators

Oh, Richard, let her settle in! Mum interjected. Claire, take care. New builds can be funny sometimes. Never know who the neighbours are.

Claire laughed, finally triumphing over the lock and pushing the door open.

Mum, this isnt a seventies bedsit. Its a decent building with decent people. Ill be fine.

The following weeks melted into one endless circuit between B&Q, John Lewis, and her flat. Claire fell asleep with wallpaper samples beside her head, and woke thinking about which grout would suit the bathroom tiles best.

Saturday found her standing in the middle of the living room, weighing up fabric swatches for the curtains, when her phone buzzed again.

So, hows it all coming along? Dad asked.

Slow but steady. Today its curtains. Not sure whether to go for Ivory or Warm Cream. Thoughts?

Im certain theyre just the same colour, but with different labels.

Dad, you dont know the difference!

But I do know a thing or two about wiring. Are the sockets sorted?

Renovations devoured her time, money, and patiencebut every finishing touch transformed the bare rooms into a real home. She chose the cream-beige wallpaper herself, found a proper bloke for the flooring, and arranged the furniture so even the shoebox kitchen felt bigger.

When the last builder took away the final bag of rubbish, Claire sat on the gleaming floor of her spotless living room. The new curtains glowed in the gentle light, and the place still smelt of fresh paint. Her first true home.

She met her neighbour three days after moving in. Claire was fussing with her keys at the door when a lock clicked on the opposite flat.

Oh, the new girl! said a woman in her early thirties, peeking out. Short hair, bold lipstick, and bright, inquisitive eyes. Im Lucy. Just across the hallso, looks like were neighbours.

Im Claire. Lovely to meet you.

If you ever need salt, sugar, or just a natter, knock anytime. Its strange being alone in a new build, I should know.

Lucy proved delightful company. They had tea in Claires kitchen, swapping stories about the building management and the quirks of their floorplan. Lucy shared all the essential info: the best broadband provider, which handyman didnt charge the earth, and the local shop with the freshest groceries.

Ive got a cracking apple cake recipeout of this world! Lucy flicked through her phone. Here, Ill send it. Half an hour in the oven and youll look like youve been baking all day.

Oh yes! I havent tried the oven yet.

Weeks slipped by. Claire was genuinely glad for such a friendly neighbour. Theyd bump into each other on the stairwell, pop in for coffee, swap books.

On Saturday, Richard visited to sort out a shelf that refused to stay on the wall.

You bought the wrong plugs, Dad declared, inspecting the fixings. These are for plasterboard, and youve got solid concrete walls. No worries, Ive got proper ones in the car.

An hour later, the shelf hung perfectly. Richard packed away his tools, scrutinised his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction.

There you go, good for another twenty years.

Dad, you’re the best! Claire hugged him.

They walked down talking about everything and nothingwork, her new manager with his scrambled deadlines and lost files.

Just outside, Lucy appeared, laden with Waitrose bags.

Oh, hi there! Claire waved. Meet my dad, Richard. Dad, this is Lucy, my neighbour I’ve mentioned.

Lovely to meet you, Richard said, smiling warmly.

Lucy froze for a heartbeat, her eyes flicking from Richard to Claire. Her smile became forced, almost painted on.

Pleasure, she muttered, then hurried inside.

After that, something shifted. The next morning, Claire greeted Lucy on the landing with her usual cheerbut got a frosty nod in return. Two days later, she tried inviting Lucy round for tea, but Lucy cut her off, claiming she was too busy.

Then the complaints began…

The first time the community officer knocked was nine in the evening.

Weve had a report of noise disturbance, the middle-aged policeman looked apologetic. Loud music, shouts.

Music? I was reading a book! Claire gaped.

Well, the neighbours

The complaints escalated quicklyletters to the management about unbearable stomping, constant banging, and music late at night. The community officer appeared regularly, always apologetic, always at a loss.

Claire knew where the wind was blowing from, but couldnt fathom the reason why.

Every morning became a prize draw: what next? Eggshells smeared across her door, coffee grounds packed in the frame, a bag of potato peelings tucked beneath the doormat.

Claire started rising half an hour earlier just to clear the mess before work. Her hands stung from cleaning products, and her throat was tight with dread.

This cant go on, she muttered one evening, scrolling through online peephole cameras.

It took twenty minutes to install. The tiny cam, disguised as an ordinary peephole, recorded everything on the landing. Claire linked it to her phone and waited.

Not long.

At three a.m., her phone pinged. Claire watched in disbelief as Lucyin dressing gown and slippersmethodically smeared something dark across her door. She worked meticulously, as if performing a mundane chore.

The next night, Claire stayed up. She sat in her hallway, body tense at every sound. Close to half three, she heard a rustle outside.

She yanked the door open.

Lucy froze, clutching a bag that squelched unpleasantly.

What did I ever do to you? Claires voice cracked with hurt. Why are you doing this?

Lucy slowly dropped the bag. Her face twisted, beauty replaced by an ancient bitterness.

You? Youve done nothing. But your dear father…

What does my dad have to do with this?

Hes my father too! Lucy was nearly shouting, uncaring who heard. He raised you, treasured you, pampered your motherbut he abandoned me when I was three! Never paid a penny in child support or even called! Mum and I barely scraped by while he played happy families with your mum. So you, Claire, you stole my father!

Claire stumbled backwards, spine bumping against the door frame.

Youre lying

Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Clarkeand daughter Lucywho he dumped like rubbish!

Claire slammed the door and collapsed to the floor. One thought hammered through her mind: Not true, not true, not true. Dad wouldnt. He couldnt.

The next morning, she drove to her parents. She practised her question all the way, but when she saw her fatherserene, reading The Telegraphher words stuck.

Claire! What a nice surprise. Richard stood up. Mums just popped to Sainsburys; shell be back soon.

Dad, I need to ask Claire squeezed her handbag strap. Do you know someone called Marina Clarke?

Richard froze. The newspaper slid from his fingers to the carpet.

How do you

Her daughtermy neighbour. The one I introduced you to. She says youre her father.

Silence lasted forever.

Lets go, Richard said sharply. Now. I need to put this right.

The drive to Claires flat took forty minutes in utter silence. Claire stared out as familiar streets flashed past, trying to piece her shattered world.

Lucy was waiting. She ushered them in, her glare heavy and unforgiving.

Come to confess, have you? she spat at Richard. After thirty years?

Ive come to explain. Richard withdrew a folded sheet from his coat pocket. Read this.

Lucy snatched it, suspicion in her eyes. As she read, her expression flickered from fury to confusion, from confusion to stunned disbelief.

This what is this?

A DNA test, Richard said, his voice steady. I took it when your mother tried to get child support through the courts. It proved Im not your father. Marina cheated on me. Lucy, you arent my child.

The paper dropped from Lucys fingers.

Claire and her father left the neighbours flat behind. At home, Claire wrapped her arms around Richard, burying her face in his jackets rough fabric.

Im sorry, Dad. Sorry I doubted you.

Richard stroked her hair, just as he had when she was little and came running after a tiff with her friends.

Theres nothing to forgive, sweetheart. Others are to blame for this mess.

Claire never tried to restore her neighbourly relationship with Lucy. After all those petty cruelties, all respect for that woman had vanished forever.