You Took My Father From Me – Mum, I’ve finally moved in! Can you believe it? Anna cradled her phone between her shoulder and ear, all while wrestling with the stubborn front door lock. The key turned with difficulty, as if the flat itself was testing out its new owner. – Oh darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is everything alright? Her mum’s voice was anxious and excited at the same time. – It’s perfect! Bright, spacious. The balcony’s east facing—just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – I’m here, I’m here! boomed Victor’s voice. – We’ve switched to speakerphone. Well, has the fledgling finally flown the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five—not exactly a fledgling anymore. – You’ll always be my fledgling. Have you checked the locks? The windows—any draughts? The radiators… – Victor, give her a chance to settle in! interrupted her mum. – Anna, just be careful. It’s a new build—heaven knows who your neighbours are. Anna laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. – Mum, this isn’t some shoddy seventies bedsit. It’s a decent place with decent people. Everything’s going to be fine. The next few weeks blurred into one endless marathon between DIY shops, furniture stores, and her own flat. Anna fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up debating which shade of grout would best suit her bathroom tiles. On Saturday she stood in her new living room, inspecting curtain fabric samples, when her phone rang again. – How’s it going? Dad asked. – Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” Thoughts? – I think those are the same colour, just different sales pitches. – Dad, you know nothing about shades! – But I do know electrics. Are the sockets wired properly? Renovations devoured time, money, and patience, but every new touch transformed the empty walls into a real home. Anna picked milk-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own handyman to fit the laminate, and cleverly arranged the furniture to make even the tiny kitchen feel bigger. Once the last builder cleared away the rubble, Anna sat cross-legged on the gleaming living room floor. Soft light fell through her new curtains; the air smelled fresh—with just a hint of paint. Her first real home… Anna met her neighbour three days after the big move. She was fiddling with her keys when the flat opposite clicked open. – Oh, the new girl! A woman in her early thirties poked her head out: short hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. – I’m Alison. I live right across from you. So, neighbours now! – Anna. Lovely to meet you. – If you ever need sugar, salt, or just a natter—knock away. Being alone in a new block’s weird to start with, I remember. Alison was easy company. They drank tea in Anna’s kitchen, swapping tales about dodgy lettings and the quirks of their new building. Alison was a fount of useful information: where to get decent broadband, which plumber did a good job for a fair price, which local shop had the best fresh veg. – Listen, I’ve got a recipe for apple cake—it’s out of this world! Alison scrolled her phone. – Takes half an hour, tastes like you spent all day baking. – Oooh, send it! I haven’t tried out my oven yet. Days became weeks, and Anna counted herself lucky to have such a friendly neighbour. They kept bumping into each other on the landing, occasionally popped round for coffee, even swapped books. On Saturday, Victor dropped by, tools in hand, to help with the shelf that refused to stay put. – You got the wrong rawl plugs, he said, peering at the fittings. – These are for plasterboard; you need concrete. I’ve got proper ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf was perfectly fixed. Victor packed away his tools, inspected his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction. – That’ll hold for twenty years now. – Dad, you’re a legend! Anna hugged him. They headed downstairs, chatting about work and life. Victor asked about her job; Anna grumbled about her new boss who kept missing deadlines and losing papers. Outside their block, Alison appeared laden with supermarket bags. – Oh, hello! Anna waved. – Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison—my neighbour I told you about. – Pleased to meet you, Victor said, wearing his usual easy smile. Alison paused oddly, her eyes flicking between Victor and Anna. Her smile turned stiff—almost pasted on. – Likewise, was all she said before hurrying inside. After that, everything changed. The next morning, Anna bumped into Alison on the landing and greeted her as usual but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited Alison for tea—Alison made an excuse and barely listened. Then the complaints started. The first time, the community officer knocked at nine at night. – We’ve received reports of excessive noise—loud music and disturbance. – What music? Anna was taken aback. – I was reading a book! – Well, the neighbours have complained… Next came more complaints—footsteps, constant banging, music at night. The officer appeared regularly, each time apologising and shrugging helplessly. Anna knew where the complaints were coming from—but not why. Every morning became a lottery—what now? Egg shells smeared on the door? Coffee grounds wedged in the frame? Potato peelings thoughtfully tucked under her doormat? She started rising half an hour earlier just to clean up before work. Her hands were raw from cleaning products, and the lump in her throat never quite went away. – This can’t go on, she muttered one night, researching a video peephole online. The installation took twenty minutes—a tiny camera hidden inside what looked like an ordinary door viewer. Anna synced it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At three a.m., her phone buzzed with movement. Anna stared in disbelief as Alison—dressed in dressing gown and slippers—methodically smeared a dark mess across her door. Calm, precise—like a chore she’d repeated many times. The next night, Anna stayed up, listening for every sound in the hallway, and at half past two, she heard a rustling outside. Anna yanked open the door. Alison froze, a leaking bag in hand. – What did I ever do to you? Anna surprised herself at how pitiful her voice sounded. – Why are you doing this to me? Alison slowly lowered the bag. Her features twisted, beautiful face grimacing into a mask of old bitterness. – You? You never did anything. But your daddy… She almost shouted, careless of anyone listening. – Because he’s my father too! Only he cared for you—cherished you—while he abandoned me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called! Mum and I scraped by while he played happy families with your mum! So, really, you took my father from me! Anna staggered back, bumping into her doorframe. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Sloane and a daughter Alison—who he discarded like rubbish! Anna slammed the door, sinking to the floor. One thought spun in her head: Not true, not true, not true. Dad couldn’t have. He couldn’t. The next morning she went straight to her parents’ house. All the way she rehearsed what to say, but when she saw her dad—calm as ever, reading the paper—her words stuck. – Anna! What a surprise! Victor stood and smiled. – Mum’s out shopping, but she’ll be back soon. – Dad, I need to ask… Anna sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. – Do you know a woman called Marina Sloane? Victor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands. – How do you… – Her daughter—my neighbour. The one you met. She says you’re her father. Silence. It seemed to last forever. – Let’s go see her, Victor said abruptly. – Now. This needs sorting out. The drive to Anna’s flat took forty minutes. Both were silent. Anna stared out the window, struggling to piece together her shattered world. Alison opened instantly, as if waiting for them. She shot them both a hard look, but let them in. – Come to confess, Victor? Thirty years late? – I’ve come to explain, Victor pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket. – Read this. Alison snatched it, suspicious. Her face shifted as she read—anger to shock, shock to confusion. – What…? – DNA test result, Victor said calmly. – I took it when your mother filed for child support in court. Test showed—I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter. Alison dropped the paper. Anna left with her father. At home, she moved to him, burying her face in his jacket. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I believed it. Victor stroked her hair—just like when she came to him after playground fights as a little girl. – You’ve nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. Other people are to blame. Things were never settled with Alison. But Anna didn’t want to try. After everything, any respect for her neighbour was gone forever…

Author Wanda MirandaReading 9 minViews 3

She Took My Father

“Mother, Ive moved in! Can you believe it, at last!”

Emily pressed her phone between her cheek and shoulder, wrestling with the stubborn front door lock. The key turned with awkward resistance, as though testing its new mistress.

“Darling, thank goodness! And the flathow is everything? All alright?” Her mothers voice crackled with a kind of anxious joy.

“Its perfect! Bright, roomy. The balcony faces east, just like I wanted. Is Dad there?”

“Here I am, here I am!” came the familiar boom of Richards voice. “Weve switched to speaker. Well then, has the fledgling left the nest?”

“DadIm twenty-five. Hardly a fledgling.”

“Youll always be a fledgling to me. Checked the locks? Windows sound? Radiators”

“Richard, let the child settle in!” interrupted her mother briskly. “Emily, do be careful. New build, after allnever know who your neighbours might be.”

Emily laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door.

“Mum, its not a dodgy bedsit. Nice building, nice people. Its all fine.”

The weeks blurred together, a whirlwind of errands between hardware shops, furniture showrooms, and her own little flat. Emily fell asleep over stacks of wallpaper samples and woke up wondering which grout shade would suit her bathroom tiles best.

One Saturday she stood in the middle of the sitting room, eyeing fabric swatches for her curtains, when her phone rang again.

“Hows the progress?” her father inquired.

“Slowly but surely. Choosing curtains today. Torn between ivory linen and warm cream. What do you reckon?”

“I reckon theyre both the same colourits just branding, isnt it?”

“Dad, you know nothing about shades!”

“But I know about electrics. You got the sockets sorted?”

The refurbishment devoured her weekends, her pounds, her patience, but with each flourish, the bare walls began to feel like home. Emily chose creamy beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found the right bloke to lay the laminate, rearranged the furniture so her cramped kitchen felt almost spacious.

When the last workman finally carted away the leftover rubbish, Emily slumped onto the gleaming lounge floor. Gentle light streamed through her new curtains, there was a faint, fresh whiffjust a touch of paint. Her first true home…

She met her neighbour three days after moving in properly. Emily was fiddling with her keys at the door when, across the way, a lock clicked.

“Oh, the new lass!” A woman in her early thirties appeared, short hair, bold lipstick, bright curious eyes. “Im Jane. Im right opposite, so we’ll be neighbours now.”

“Emily. Very pleased to meet you.”

“If you ever need a pinch of salt, some sugar, or just a natterpop round. Its odd being alone in a new build, I remember.”

Jane proved to be good company. They sipped tea in Emilys kitchen, swapping tales of the finicky property manager and quirks in the flats design. Jane was generous with tipsbest broadband provider, a reliable bloke for the plumbing, and which nearby shop was freshest for groceries.

“ListenIve got this recipe for apple crumble thats out of this world!” Jane flipped through her phone. “Ill send it over. Half an hour and everyone will think you slaved away all day.”

“Go on then! Still havent tested the oven.”

Days became weeks and Emily felt lucky to have such a warm neighbour. They passed on the stairs, sometimes dropped by for coffee, swapped books back and forth.

One Saturday Richard came roundhelping with the stubborn shelf that just wouldnt stay up.

“You bought the wrong wall plugs,” he declared, examining the fixings. “Thesere for plasterboard, your walls are solid concrete! Hang on, I’ve got some proper ones in the car.”

An hour later, the shelf hung firm and straight. Richard packed up his toolkit, surveyed his handiwork, and nodded in approval.

“There you go, good for twenty years at least.”

“Dad, youre a star!” Emily hugged him.

They went outside, chatting about little thingsher work grumbles, how her new manager was hopeless with deadlines and forever misplacing files.

At the front door, they bumped into Jane carrying shopping bags from Tesco.

“Oh, hi!” Emily waved. “Dad, meet Janeshes my neighbour I told you about.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Richard responded with his typical warm smile.

Jane froze for a moment, glancing between Richard and Emily. Her smile seemed pasted on, oddly stiff.

“Pleasure,” she said curtly, disappearing inside.

After that meeting, everything shifted. The next morning, when Emily greeted Jane at the door as usual, she received only a frosty nod. Two days later, she tried inviting Jane for teaJane brushed her off, busy and abrupt.

Then the complaints began.

The first time a local PC knocked at nine that evening.

“Weve had reports of a noise disturbance,” the older policeman looked sheepish. “Loud musicrowdy, apparently.”

“Music? I was reading!” Emily stammered.

“Well, neighbours are complaining…”

The complaints kept cominga barrage. The management company got letters about “unbearable stomping,” “constant banging,” “music in the dead of night.” The policeman returned regularly, offering apologies, shrugging.

Emily saw which way the wind was blowingbut not why.

Every morning was a lotterywhat next? Egg shells smeared on her front door? Coffee grounds stuffed in the cracks? Potato peelings tucked under the doormat?

She started waking half an hour earlier to clean up before work. Her hands stung from disinfectant, her throat always tight.

“This cant go on,” she muttered one evening, browsing for smart door viewers online.

Twenty minutes later, shed installed one. The tiny camera looked ordinary but fed straight to her phone. Emily waited.

She didnt wait long.

At three in the morning, her mobile lit up with a motion alert. Emily watched, aghast, as Janein dressing gown and slippersmethodically smeared something dark over her door, calmly, almost like routine.

On the next night, Emily stayed up, sitting in her hallway, listening for every sound. At half past two, there came a rustling outside. She flung open the door.

Jane froze, clutching a sloshing bag.

“What did I ever do to you?” Emilys own voice sounded so small. “Why are you doing this?”

Jane slowly lowered the bag. Her face twisted, pretty features melting into a mask of old bitterness.

“You? You did nothing. But your father…”

“What about my father?”

“What about him? Hes my father too!” Jane nearly shouted, not caring who heard. “But he raised you, loved you, spoilt youhe abandoned me when I was three! Not a penny did he give us, not one call! Mum and I barely scraped by, while he built his happy family with your mother. So youyou stole my father from me!”

Emily recoiled, hitting her back on the door frame.

“Youre lying…”

“Lying? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Margaret Miller and her daughter Jane, the ones he tossed aside like rubbish!”

Emily slammed the door and slumped to the floor. Only one thought hammered through her mind: Its not true, not true, it cant be true. Dad couldnthe just couldnt.

The next morning she drove to her parents. She rehearsed her question all the way, but seeing Richardcalm as ever, reading the Timesher words stuck.

“Emily! What a surprise!” Richard stood up. “Your mothers out shoppingshell be back soon.”

“Dad, I need to ask…” Emily sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. “Do you know a woman named Margaret Miller?”

Richard froze. The newspaper slid from his fingers.

“How did you…”

“Her daughterJane. My neighbour. She claims youre her father.”

Silence stretched on and on.

“Were going round there,” Richard said abruptly. “Now. I have to put this right.”

The drive to the new flats took forty minutes. They didnt speak. Emily watched the houses glide past, trying to piece together her broken world.

Jane opened the door at once, as if shed been waiting. She glanced at them warily but let them in.

“Come to confess, have you?” she spat at Richard. “Thirty years late?”

“Ive come to explain.” Richard reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded sheet. “Read this.”

Jane snatched the document, sceptical. As she read, her face changedanger giving way to confusion, then lost bewilderment.

“This what is it?”

“A DNA test result,” Richard said quietly. “I took it when your mother tried for child support in court. The test showedIm not your father. Margaret cheated on me. Youre not my daughter.”

Janes hands dropped the paper.

Emily and her father left Janes flat. At home, Emily walked up to her dad and hugged him, burying her face in his jackets rough cloth.

“Im sorry, Dad. Sorry for believing her.”

Richard stroked her hair, just as hed done when she was a little girl after playground quarrels.

“Theres nothing you need to be sorry for, love. Its all down to other people.”

After all that, her relationship with Jane never mended. Emily didnt try. After those nasty tricks, any respect for Jane was gone, swept away for good.