**Payback for the Prank**
Fifteen years together. Just your typical family from Manchester: Steven and Emma, with their two kids, Oliver and Lily. Tight-knit, kind-hearted, well-respected among their friends—everyone called them the perfect couple. They lived in harmony, no big fights, just warmth and mutual respect. You’d think happiness had settled in for good.
Steven was the joker of the pack, a born prankster. His thing? Not harmless little gags, but the kind that could make your hair stand on end.
He’d wrap a lump of playdough in a sweet wrapper—same colour, same shape. Or replace the cream in biscuits with toothpaste. Once, he even filled a Coke bottle with soy sauce, making it look like the real deal. His poor victims, expecting a creamy chocolate filling, got clay instead. Steven would be in stitches, while everyone else… not so much.
“Steve, please,” Emma begged more than once. “Not today. Just let our anniversary go smoothly, okay? No pranks.”
“Fine, I swear—nothing. Just a nice, normal party,” he promised on their crystal wedding anniversary.
The house was prepped for guests—Emma in the kitchen, kids decorating the lounge. They handed Steve a massive shopping list, so off he went to Tesco. He came back a couple hours later to find the first surprise: someone had nicked his parking spot.
After a quick grumble, he left a note on the car and parked round the back. Bags were heavy, but he had to hurry—no groceries, no feast.
Got to the door, key out—wouldn’t turn. Sweat beaded his forehead. The doorbell sounded different, not the usual chirpy tone. Then the door swung open…
A woman in a dressing gown and rollers scowled at him.
“About time! We’ve called every supermarket! Where’s the shopping?”
Steven froze.
Her husband—a big, friendly bloke named Nigel—peered over her shoulder.
“Luv, probably just the delivery guy.”
“How much do we owe? Where’s the receipt?” The woman, Martha, was already rummaging through the bags.
“Uh… sorry,” Steven’s voice cracked. “This is *my* flat. Riverside Street, number 12, flat 17?”
“Yeah, that’s right. We bought it five years ago off a woman with kids—Emma, was it? Kids were Oliver and Lily.”
Steven nearly dropped the bags. His chest tightened. He fumbled for his wallet, showed his ID. Flat 17, clear as day.
“Come in, have a look,” Martha offered.
He stepped inside… into a stranger’s home. Different furniture, fresh paint. Nothing familiar. His head spun. He sank onto a chair. Their kids—about the same age as his—barged in, laughing, chatting. It all felt like a bad dream.
He pulled out his phone. Called Emma.
“Em… what’s going on? Where are you? Why are there strangers in our flat?”
“Emma, you coming?” A man’s voice called in the background.
“One sec, darling!” she chirped. Then into the phone: “Who is this?”
“Em! It’s *me*, Steven!”
“Who? Steve? Are you joking? You vanished five years ago, and now—hello?”
“Five years?! I went to Tesco for two hours!”
“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 place—”
“Wait, what are you *on* about?” His throat clogged with tears. “Is this a joke? Am I hallucinating?”
“No, Steve. *You* played jokes on us for years. Today, you got a taste of your own medicine…”
Then—the door burst open. Kids, Emma, neighbours, mates—all piled in, howling with laughter, clapping.
“Surprise!” they shouted.
Steven’s knees buckled. He scanned the room—all familiar faces. Like a staged play.
“It was a prank,” Emma said, grinning. “Took six months to plan. Wanted you to feel what it’s like being on the other side.”
“You’re all *mental*,” he croaked, shaky hands reaching for the Valerian.
“Meet Nigel and Martha. Actors from the local theatre. Nailed their parts.”
“The doorbell? The lock?”
“Nigel’s a handyman. Changed ’em both—all part of the script.”
“The voice on the phone?”
“My brother, Tom. Held a hankie over his mouth so you wouldn’t recognise him.”
Steven collapsed onto the sofa while Emma handed him a glass of water.
“Mum,” Oliver whispered, “think we went too far?”
“Hope he finally gets how it feels,” she murmured. “Doubt we’ll see more pranks now.”
And he *did* get it. For good.
