The Price of a Joke
Fifteen years together. They seemed like the perfect family from Brighton: Steven and Emily, with their two children, Oliver and Mia. A close-knit, kind-hearted bunch, loved by friends and neighbours alike. Everyone called them the ideal couple. They lived harmoniously, without loud arguments, filled with warmth and respect. It seemed happiness had settled in their home for good.
Steven was the joker of the family, born to prank. Not just harmless tricks, but the kind that could leave people speechless.
He’d wrap a lump of clay in a sweet wrapper, making it look just like a toffee. Or fill biscuits with toothpaste. Once, he even swapped cola for soy sauce, watching as someone took a swig expecting something sweet. He’d laugh until tears came, but not everyone found it funny.
“Steven, please,” Emily begged more than once. “Not today. Can we at least get through our anniversary without one of your stunts?”
“Alright, I swear—no pranks, just celebration,” he promised on their crystal wedding anniversary.
The house buzzed with preparations. Emily was cooking in the kitchen, the kids decorating the living room. Steven was given a long shopping list and headed off to the supermarket. He returned two hours later—only to find someone had taken his parking spot.
Grumbling, he left a note for the “offender” and parked further away. The bags were heavy, but he was in a hurry—without these, the party wouldn’t happen.
He climbed the stairs, fumbling for his key—but it wouldn’t turn. Sweat pricked his brow. The doorbell chimed with an unfamiliar tone, not the cheerful one he knew. The door swung open, and…
A stranger stood there—a woman in a dressing gown and hair curlers.
“Finally! We’ve called every shop in town! Where’s the shopping?” she snapped.
Steven froze.
Her husband—a burly, good-natured man named Nigel—appeared behind her.
“Linda, love, he’s probably just the delivery bloke.”
“How much do we owe? Where’s the receipt?” Linda was already rummaging through the bags.
“Excuse me…” Steven’s voice shook. “This is my flat. Beach Road, number 12, flat 17?”
“That’s right. We bought it five years ago from a woman with kids. Emily, I think her name was. Kids were Oliver and Mia.”
Steven nearly dropped the bags. His chest tightened. He pulled out his ID, showing his address. Flat 17.
“Come in, have a look,” Linda offered.
He stepped inside—and nothing was familiar. New furniture. Fresh paint. No trace of home. His head spun as he slumped into a chair. Nigel and Linda’s kids—around the same age as his own—bustled past, laughing. The noise felt like a bad dream.
He grabbed his phone and dialled Emily.
“Em… what’s going on? Where are you? Why are strangers in our flat?”
“Em, darling, you coming?” a man’s voice called in the background.
“Just a sec, love!” Emily chirped. Then, into the phone: “Who is this?”
“Em! It’s me, Steven!”
“Who? Steve? Are you having a laugh? You vanished five years ago, and now—hello?”
“Five years?! I popped to the shop two hours ago!”
“You left on our anniversary and never came back. Not a word. I sold the flat—couldn’t manage alone. The kids grew up. I’ve moved on. I’m married now. We live in my husband’s house—”
“Wait! What are you on about?” Tears clogged his throat. “Is this a joke? Am I hallucinating?”
“No, Steve. You’ve joked at our expense for years. Today, you got a taste of your own medicine.”
Then—the door burst open. The kids, Emily, their neighbours, friends—all piled in, laughing and clapping.
“Surprise!” they shouted.
Steven’s legs buckled. He scanned the room—every face he knew. Like a play staged just for him.
“It was a prank,” Emily confirmed. “Six months in the making. Wanted you to feel what it’s like being on the other side.”
“You’re all mad,” he mumbled, shaky hands reaching for the aspirin.
“Meet Nigel and Linda. Actors from the local theatre. Brilliant performances, don’t you think?”
“The doorbell? The lock?”
“Nigel’s a handyman. Changed them both—all part of the script.”
“The voice on the phone?”
“My brother, Tom. Held a cloth over his mouth so you wouldn’t recognise him.”
Steven collapsed onto the sofa. Emily gently handed him a glass of water.
“Mum,” Oliver whispered, “think we went too far?”
“Hopefully he’ll finally get it—how it feels to be the butt of the joke. Reckon the pranks might stop now.”
And he did understand. For good.
