The Neighbour Below, Love from Above
Victor rolled his eyes at the clock—morning had barely begun, and the day was already ruined. Instead of suitcases, plane tickets, and a long-awaited beach holiday with Eliza, he was trudging through the musty hallway of his old five-storey block of flats. Same as always. His sister Valerie, tears, a thermometer, and the inevitable plea: *”Please just look after the kids, I’ve got no one else to turn to…”*
He didn’t want to. Honestly. He wanted to be that bloke on holiday, cocktail in hand, with a woman by his side. Instead, he had two screeching nephews, a backpack full of toys, and the faint whiff of last night’s drinks from his neighbour downstairs, who opened her door and gasped:
“Vic, what’s with the ankle-biters? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got married?”
Katie—his neighbour from the ground floor. Fiery red hair, sharp as a tack, with fox-like eyes. He’d flooded her flat twice before the landlord finally fixed the tap. Her mum, bless her, hadn’t demanded a penny, but ever since, Katie had been winking at him like she knew something. Though to be fair, she still looked about sixteen.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school? I’ll tell your mum!” he snorted, watching her cheeks flush.
“I’ve *finished* college! Got a job interview today!” She huffed, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.
“Sure, looks like you’ve been bunking off. Take a good look in the mirror, love!”
They both laughed, Katie ducked back inside, and Victor headed to his car—old but his own, bought on finance. Eliza had sniffed, *”Could’ve got something nicer.”* But he was proud of it anyway. Stubborn, that’s him. He’d get there—flat, car, status, Eliza.
But not today.
Today was traffic jams, sticky seats, and two wailing kids in the back, while his sister sniffled down the phone:
“Sorry, Vic, really, there’s no one else…”
Valerie was in hospital, their mum had taken to bed with stress, and their dad? Well, Oliver was only a father on paper. Drinking, disappearing—that’s all he was good for.
The kids clung to his neck: *”Uncle Vic!”* He hugged them, promised ice cream, and took them to his rented one-bedroom flat.
Katie popped up again in the stairwell.
“All yours?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Yep, picked ’em up at the bus stop,” he grinned. “Blinked, and suddenly they’ve moved in.”
The kids giggled, but Katie just looked flustered. He backtracked:
“I’m joking. They’re my sister’s. She’s in hospital, so I’m on babysitting duty.”
The flat descended into chaos the second they stepped inside. Victor cooked them eggs, dragged them to the park, bought burgers and balloons—they were over the moon. But by day three, the whinging started: Emily’s throat hurt, Noah’s tummy ached, and between the tears and *”We want Mummy!”*, Victor was ready to scream.
A knock at the door. Katie stood there, holding a first-aid kit.
“Heard them crying… Need a hand? I’ve got my nursing certificate.”
She swooped in, brought out old toys, tucked them in, wrapped Emily’s throat in a scarf, and rubbed Noah’s belly until he dozed off in her arms.
“Come to the kitchen, I’ll make you a sandwich,” Victor muttered, closing the bedroom door behind them.
Sitting over tea, Katie asked,
“So, your… partner—when’s she taking the kids back?”
“My—? Blimey, no! That’s my sister. No kids of my own. Not for a while, anyway.”
Katie smiled then, and he realised—she was real. Cosy. Warm. Not like Eliza, not like any of them.
She stayed another day. Then two. Then—well, forever. Soon, they were taking the kids to the park, cooking, laughing. And when the balloon seller cooed, *”What a lovely family!”*, something twisted in Victor’s chest. He looked at Katie, at the kids, and suddenly, he didn’t want this to end.
Eliza rang a week later. Her voice was ice.
“Where *are* you? No calls, nothing. Right, I get it.”
And all he felt was… nothing.
When Valerie was discharged, the kids begged:
“Uncle Vic, can Katie stay with us? Do you love her?”
Emily, impatient, blurted:
“I *know* you do. She loves you too. We’ll carry the flowers at your wedding.”
Katie turned pink, smoothing the kids’ hair, while Victor caught his reflection and thought, *”Bloody hell, thank you for that ginger whirlwind from downstairs.”*
Pulling up to the house, Valerie and their mum rushed out, took one look at Katie, and threw their hands up:
“About time you found someone decent! Katie, love? Welcome to the family!”
Victor just smiled.
The drive back was quiet. Then Katie said,
“Your car’s actually really cosy. And… you’re safe. Reliable.”
He swallowed.
“Fancy the park tomorrow? I’ve got your soup left—doesn’t taste right without you.”
Three months later, they married.
Sometimes happiness isn’t where you expect it. Sometimes it lives downstairs—red-haired, backpack slung over one shoulder, with hands soft enough to quiet even a child’s tears.
And Victor knew: this was his family. For good.
