Stole My Father – Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it, finally! Oksana balanced her phone against her shoulder, fiddling with the stubborn lock. The key turned with effort, as if testing its new owner’s mettle. – Darling, thank goodness! How’s the flat? Everything okay? – her mother’s voice buzzed with excitement and nerves. – Perfect! Bright, airy. East-facing balcony, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – Right here! – Viktor’s deep voice chimed in on speaker. – So, the chick has flown the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five! Not such a chick anymore. – You’ll always be my chick. Checked the locks? Windows sealed? Radiators… – Viktor, let her settle in! – interrupted Mum. – Oksana, be careful, love. It’s a new building, you never know your neighbours. Oksana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing the door open. – Mum, this place isn’t some dodgy 70s flat. It’s a nice building with decent people. I’ll be fine. The next few weeks blurred into a marathon between DIY shops, furniture outlets, and her new flat. Oksana fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues on her pillow and woke up pondering grout colours for the bathroom tiles. On Saturday, she stood in the middle of the living room, eyeing curtain swatches, when her phone buzzed again. – How’s it all coming along? – Dad wanted to know. – Slow but sure. Today it’s curtains. Torn between ‘ivory’ and ‘baked milk’. Opinions? – I reckon they’re the same colour with different salesmen. – Dad, you just don’t get shades! – But I do get electrics. Sockets all sorted? Renovation devoured her time, money and nerves; but each detail transformed the bare walls into a real home. Oksana chose the cream-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own laminate floor layer, and figured out how to arrange furniture so her tiny kitchen felt roomy. When the last worker cleared away the builder’s rubbish, Oksana sat on the gleaming living room floor. Warm light filtered through the new curtains, mingling with the scent of paint and fresh air. Her very first real home. She met her neighbour three days after moving in. Oksana was fiddling with the door when a lock clicked across the hall. – Oh, you’re the new girl! – A woman in her early thirties popped out, sporting a pixie cut, bright lipstick and curious eyes. – I’m Alice. Live right opposite, so we’re neighbours now. – Oksana. Nice to meet you! – Pop round for sugar, salt, or a chat anytime. It’s weird at first in a new build—I remember! Alice turned out to be great company. They had tea in Oksana’s kitchen, swapping stories about their management company and the quirks of the building’s layout. Alice had all the tips: the best broadband, the go-to handyman, the shop with the freshest groceries. – I’ve got a recipe for apple crumble—honestly, it’s out of this world! – Alice scrolled through her phone. – I’ll send it over now. Only half an hour and tastes like you’ve been baking all day. – Oh, yes please! I haven’t even tested the oven yet. Days melted into weeks, and Oksana was glad Alice lived nearby. They chatted on the landing, sometimes shared coffee, swapped books. On Saturday, Viktor dropped by to help with a shelf that refused to stay up. – Wrong wall plugs, – Dad diagnosed, inspecting the fittings. – These are for drywall; this is concrete. Never mind, I’ve got the right ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf was secure. Viktor packed his tools, surveyed his handiwork, and nodded in approval. – That’ll hold for twenty years! – You’re the best! – Oksana hugged him. They headed down the stairs, chatting about her job and her scatter-brained new manager. Outside, Alice appeared with supermarket bags. – Hi there! – Oksana waved. – Meet my dad, Viktor. Dad, this is Alice, the neighbour I mentioned. – Pleasure, – Viktor greeted her with his trademark warm grin. Alice froze briefly, scanning Viktor’s face and then Oksana’s. Her smile turned strange, as if pasted on. – Likewise, – she said curtly and hurried into the block. Everything changed after that meeting. The next morning, Oksana bumped into Alice and cheerfully greeted her, but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited Alice over for tea—Alice mumbled about being busy and dashed off. Then the complaints started… The local bobby knocked at her door at nine one night. – We’ve had reports of noise nuisance – loud music, banging about. – Music? – Oksana blinked. – I was reading! – Well, the neighbours are complaining… Complaints poured in: the management company received letters about ‘unbearable stomping’, ‘constant racket’, ‘blaring music at night’. The police visited regularly, always apologising. Oksana knew the source, but not the reason. Mornings became a lottery—what now? Eggshells smeared on her door? Coffee grounds packed between the frame and panel? A bag of potato peelings tucked under the mat? Oksana started rising thirty minutes early to clean up before work. Her hands stung from cleaning, a lump in her throat stuck fast. – This can’t go on, – she muttered one evening, researching video peepholes. It took twenty minutes to fit. A tiny camera, hidden in a normal-looking peephole, streamed everything to her mobile. Oksana waited. She didn’t wait long. At three in the morning, her phone lit up—motion detected. Oksana stared as Alice, in dressing gown and slippers, meticulously smeared some dark substance over her door, as if performing a well-practised chore. The next night, Oksana sat up in her hallway, alert to every sound. Just after half-past two, something rustled outside. She yanked the door open. Alice froze, clutching a bag; inside, something squelched unpleasantly. – What did I ever do to you? – Oksana was startled by how sad her own voice sounded. – Why are you treating me this way? Alice slowly lowered her bag. Her face twisted, handsome features blurring with old anger. – You? You did nothing. But your dear dad… – What’s my dad got to do with it? – Because he’s my dad too! – Alice actually shouted, forgetting the neighbours. – Only he raised you, pampered you, but abandoned me at three! Not a penny in child support, never a call! Mum and I barely got by while he built a happy family with your mum! So you, really, you stole my father! Oksana retreated, bumping into the doorframe. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Solovyova and the daughter Alice he dumped like rubbish! Oksana slammed the door and slid down to the floor in shock. One thought hammering: it can’t be true. Dad would never. Never. In the morning, she went to her parents. All the way, she rehearsed the question, but when she saw her father—calm, reading his newspaper—the words caught in her throat. – Oksana! What a surprise! – Viktor looked up. – Mum’s just nipped out, back soon. – Dad, I need to ask you something… – Oksana sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. – Do you know a woman named Marina Solovyova? Viktor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. – How do you… – Her daughter is my neighbour—the Alice I introduced you to. She says you’re her father. Silence dragged. – We need to go see her, – said Viktor, suddenly resolute. – Right now. I have to put this right. The drive to the flats took forty minutes. They didn’t speak. Oksana watched the buildings blur past, trying to piece her shattered world together. Alice opened the door straight away, as if she’d been waiting. She gave them both a heavy look, but stepped aside. – Come to confess? – she sneered at Viktor. – After thirty years? – Come to explain. – Viktor pulled out a folded paper from his jacket. – Read this. Alice took it warily. As she read, her face changed—from fury to confusion, confusion to uncertainty. – This… what? – DNA test result, – Viktor replied calmly. – I did it when your mum went to court for maintenance. It showed I’m not your father. Marina cheated. You’re not my daughter. The paper slipped from Alice’s hand… Oksana and her father left the neighbour’s flat. Back home, Oksana moved to her dad, hugging him tightly. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I believed her. Viktor stroked her hair, just like he used to when she fell out with friends as a child. – You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, love. Some things are never really our fault. After that, things weren’t the same with Alice. But Oksana didn’t want them to be. After those cruel tricks, any respect for her neighbour was gone forever.

Took My Father

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

Charlotte pressed her mobile between her shoulder and ear, wrestling with a stubborn lock on the front door. The key turned with difficulty, as though testing the mettle of its new owner.

Darling, oh thank heaven! And the flat? Is everything alright? Her mothers voice trembled with excitement and worry.

Its perfect! Light and spacious. The balcony faces east, just as I wanted. Is Dad with you?

Im here, Im here! came the familiar rumble of Peters voice. Weve switched to speaker. So, little chicks flown the nest, eh?

Dad, Im twenty-five now, hardly a chick.

Youll always be a chick to me. Checked the locks, have you? No draughts from the windows? Radiators

Peter, give the girl a break, Mum cut in. Charlotte, do be careful. Its a new build, you never know who lives round about.

Charlotte laughed, finally winning her battle and pushed open the door.

Mum, its not some grimy bedsit from the seventies. Its a respectable building, decent folk. Ill be fine.

The weeks blurred together in a relentless dash between DIY stores, furniture shops, and her new flat. Charlotte fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues on her pillow and woke pondering which shade of grout would best suit the bathroom tiles.

One Saturday, standing amid her bare living room, inspecting curtain swatches, her mobile buzzed to life again.

Hows things coming along? Dad asked.

Slowly, but theyre getting there. Today Im choosing curtains. Torn between ivory and warm cream. Honestly, Dad, what do you think?

I reckon thats the same colour with a different price tag.

Dad, you havent a clue about colours.

But I do know electrics. Are the sockets wired right?

The renovations ate up time, money, and patience, but every new touch transformed the empty walls into a real home. Charlotte picked soft beige wallpaper for the bedroom herself, found the flooring handyman, and arranged the furniture to make her tiny kitchen feel bigger.

When the last builder hauled away the remnants of plaster and paint tins, Charlotte sat on the freshly cleaned living room floor. Golden light filtered through her new curtains and there was a scent of paint and something fresherthat first true feeling of having her own home.

It was three days after her final move when she met her neighbour. She was fiddling with her keys when the opposite door clicked open.

Ooh, the new girl! A woman, barely into her thirties, short hair, bright lipstick, curious eyes. Im Sophie. Im just across the halllooks like were neighbours.

Charlotte. Pleased to meet you.

If you ever need a pinch of salt, a cup of sugar, or just a chat, pop over. Its odd alone in a new place at first, believe me.

Sophie proved an amiable companion. Over tea in Charlottes kitchen they swapped stories about hapless property managers and quirks of their floor layout. Sophie shared everything: who offered the best internet, which tradesman could fix a leaky tap without daylight robbery, and where to buy the freshest bread nearby.

Listen, Ive got this apple cake recipeabsolute magic! Sophie scrolled through her phone. Ill send it over. Thirty minutes in the oven and people think youre Mary Berry herself.

Oh, brilliant! I havent even christened the oven yet.

Days folded into weeks, and Charlotte often felt grateful for Sophies easy warmth. Theyd pass in the stairwell, drop in for coffee, swap paperbacks.

On Saturday, Peter came roundhelp with a shelf that refused to stay up.

Youve bought the wrong wall plugs, Dad grumbled, squinting at the bracket. These are for plasterboard and youve got brick. Hold on, Ive got proper ones in the car.

In an hour, the shelf was upfirm and straight. Peter packed away tools, surveyed his handiwork, and nodded.

Thatll last twenty years.

Dad, youre the best, Charlotte laughed, hugging him.

They walked downstairs, talking about work and this and that. Peter poked fun at her new boss who couldnt keep track of deadlines or paperwork.

At the front entrance, Sophie appeared, bags from Sainsburys swinging at her side.

Hiya! Charlotte waved. Dad, meet Sophie, my neighbour Ive been telling you about.

Pleasure, Peter smiled, warm as ever.

Sophie pausedjust the briefest flickeras she looked from Peter to Charlotte. Her smile stiffened, almost pasted on.

Likewise, Sophie said, vanishing inside without another word.

After that, everything changed. The next morning, Charlotte bumped into Sophie in the hall; she greeted her, as usual, but received only a frosty nod. A few days later she invited Sophie for tea but was rebuffed with curt excuses.

Then came the complaints.

The first was a tap on the door at nine in the evening.

Weve had reports about noise, the community PC looked sheepish. Loud music, disturbances.

Music? I was reading!

Still, neighbours…

Complaints poured inletters to the management company about unbearable stomping, constant banging, and music in the night. The PC became a regular visitor, always apologetic.

Charlotte knew where it was coming from but couldnt fathom why.

Every morning became a gamblewhat next? Eggshell smeared across her door? Coffee grounds stuffed into the gap beneath? A bag of potato peelings tucked under her mat?

Charlotte set her alarm thirty minutes earlier, scrubbing away the mess before work. Her hands stung with cleaning fluid and her throat felt tight all the time.

This cant go on, she muttered one evening, scrolling for spyholes online.

It took twenty minutes to installa little camera inside a normal-looking peephole. Charlotte synced it with her phone and waited.

She didnt have long to wait.

At three a.m. her phone buzzed; movement detected. Disbelievingly, Charlotte watched as Sophiehair in curlers, dressing gown, slippersmethodically smeared something dark over the door. Careful, almost routine.

The next night Charlotte waited by the entrance, straining for every sound. Near half past two, there was a shuffle outside.

She flung open the door.

Sophie froze, plastic bag in hand, something unpleasant sloshing inside.

What have I done to you? Charlotte was surprised at the sadness in her own voice. Why are you doing this?

Slowly, Sophie dropped the bag. Her face twisted, pretty features blurred into a mask of old bitterness.

You? You havent done anything. But your father

Whats Dad got to do with this?

Hes my father too! Sophie almost shouted, not caring who overheard. But youhe raised you, spoiled you, loved you. Me? He abandoned me when I was three! Not a penny, not one phone call! Mum and I barely scraped by while he made a happy family with your precious mother! So yes, you stole my father!

Charlotte shrank back, her spine pressed to the door frame.

Youre lying

Am I? Ask him! Ask Peter if he remembers Marion Davies and her daughter Sophie, the ones he tossed out like rubbish!

Charlotte slammed the door and slid down to the floor, mind whirling: its not trueit cant be true. Dad would never. Never.

The next morning she drove to her parents house. All the way, rehearsing what to say, yet when she saw her fatheras calm as ever, newspaper in handher words died in her throat.

Char! What a surprise! Peter stood, smiling. Mums popped to the shops, shell be back soon.

Dad, I need to ask Charlotte perched on the sofa, fingers clawing at her handbag strap. Do you know a woman called Marion Davies?

Peter froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands and slid quietly to the carpet.

How do you

Her daughter is my neighbour. The one I introduced to you. She says youre her father.

The silence seemed endless.

Come on, Peter said abruptly. Well go to her. Right now. I have to set this straight.

The drive to the block took forty minutes. They didnt speak. Charlotte watched the houses and hedgerows rush by, trying to make sense of everything.

Sophie opened her door immediately, as if waiting. She eyed them both, hard, but stepped aside in silence.

Come for confession, have you? she spat at Peter. Thirty years too late?

Ive come to explain. Peter reached into his jackets inside pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. Read this.

Sophie took it warily. As she skimmed the page, her expression shiftedanger gave way to confusion, then to dismay.

What is this?

A DNA test result, Peter answered quietly. I took it when your mother tried to sue for support. It proved Im not your father. Marion was unfaithful. Youre not my child.

The paper slipped from Sophies numb fingers.

Charlotte and her father left without another word. Safely at home, Charlotte walked over and hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his worn jacket.

Im sorry, Dad. Sorry I doubted you, even for a moment.

Peter stroked her hair, just as he had when she was little and ran to him, upset after quarrels with friends.

Theres nothing to forgive, love. Some wounds are made by others.

Charlotte never repaired things with Sophie after that. She no longer wished to. The streak of spite had severed any hope of respect for the woman next doorand some wounds, it seemed, could never heal.