You Stole My Dad — Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it? Finally! Emma balanced her phone between her ear and shoulder, wrestling with a stubborn lock on her new flat’s door. The key turned grudgingly, as if testing the strength of its new owner. — Darling, thank goodness! And the flat? Everything alright? — her mother’s voice was both anxious and excited. — Perfect! Bright, spacious, just what I wanted. The balcony faces east. Is Dad there? — I’m here! — boomed Edward. — We’re on speaker. So, has the fledgling left the nest? — Dad, I’m twenty-five. Hardly a fledgling. — To me, you’ll always be one. Checked the locks? No draughty windows? Radiators OK…? — Ed, let the child settle! — Mum interjected. — Emma, be careful in a new build. You never know who lives next door. Emma laughed, beating the lock at last and pushing open the door. — Mum, this isn’t some dodgy seventies bedsit. Nice building, decent people. It’ll be fine. The next few weeks blurred into a marathon of DIY shops, furniture stores, and evenings spent poring over paint samples. Emma fell asleep clutching wallpaper catalogues, waking up pondering the exact shade of grout for the bathroom tiles. On Saturday she stood in the middle of her living room, fabric swatches draped across her arms, when her phone rang again. — How’s it going? — Edward asked. — Slowly but surely. Today’s curtain day. Torn between ‘ivory’ and ‘baked milk’. Opinions? — I think it’s all marketing. Same colour, different name. — Dad, you just don’t get shades! — But I get electrics. Are the sockets fitted alright? Refurbishing drained her time, money, and nerves, but each new touch transformed bare walls into a real home. Emma single-handedly chose the cream-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found a reliable laminate guy, and figured out how to fit her tiny kitchen’s furniture for maximum space. When the final builder hauled away leftover debris, Emma sat cross-legged on her gleaming living room floor. Soft light trickled through new curtains, it smelled of paint and something fresh—a home of her own. She met her neighbour three days after her final move-in. Emma fumbled with her keys when the door opposite clicked open. — Oh, hello—new girl! — A woman in her early thirties appeared, bobbed hair, bright lipstick, curious eyes. — I’m Lucy, right across the hall—looks like we’re neighbours! — Emma. Nice to meet you. — If you need salt, sugar, or just a chat—pop in! It’s odd at first living alone in a new build. I remember. Lucy was friendly and fun. They shared tea in Emma’s kitchen, discussing the whims of the managing agent and the quirks of their floor’s layout. Lucy knew all the local tricks—best broadband, the plumber who wouldn’t rob you, which shop had the freshest bread. — I’ve got an apple crumble recipe that’s just out of this world! — Lucy scrolled on her phone. — I’ll send it over. Done in half an hour, tastes like you slaved all day. — Oh, send it! I haven’t even fired up my oven yet. Weeks slipped by, and Emma was glad to have such an open soul next door. Coffee swaps and lending books became the norm. Soon, Edward came by to tackle a shelf that refused to hold steady. — Wrong plugs, — Edward diagnosed, inspecting the fixings. — These are for plasterboard; you’ve got solid concrete. Never mind, I’ve proper ones out in the car. An hour later, the shelf hung firmly. Edward gathered his tools and nodded with satisfaction. — That’ll last twenty years. — You’re the best, Dad! — Emma hugged him. They wandered downstairs, chatting about work; Emma complained about her new boss’s muddled deadlines and lost files. At the entrance, Lucy appeared laden with supermarket carrier bags. — Hello! — Emma waved. — Meet my dad, Edward. Dad, this is Lucy, my neighbour I told you about. — Pleased to meet you, — Edward replied with his usual warm smile. Lucy froze for a moment, her eyes flicking from Edward’s face to Emma’s, then forced a peculiar, strained smile. — Likewise, — she said curtly, disappearing inside. After that everything changed. The next morning, Emma greeted Lucy on the landing, only to get a frosty nod. A few days later, Emma tried inviting her for tea—Lucy cut her off, citing busyness. Then the complaints began. First the local police turned up at Emma’s door at nine in the evening. — We’ve had a report about noise, — the officer said, embarrassed. — Loud music, banging. — What music? I was reading a book! — Neighbours are complaining… Gripes piled up—letters to the property management about “unbearable stomping”, “constant thumping”, “music late at night”. The officer became a regular visitor, always apologetic and shrugging helplessly. Emma knew who was behind it. But not why. Each morning became a lottery—what now? Egg shells smeared on the door? Coffee grounds wedged under the frame? A bag of potato peelings left on the mat? Emma got up half an hour early, scrubbing everything before work. Her hands stung from cleaning, a lump lodged in her throat. — This can’t go on, — she muttered, shopping online for a digital peephole. Installation took twenty minutes. The camera, disguised as a normal door viewer, recorded all activity outside. Emma linked it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At 3 a.m., her mobile pinged: movement detected. Emma stared as Lucy—in her dressing gown and slippers—methodically smeared something dark across her door. The next night, Emma stayed up, listening for every sound. Around half two, she heard rustling outside and flung open the door. Lucy froze, a sloshing bag in her hand. — What did I ever do to you? — Emma’s voice sounded smaller than she wanted. — Why are you doing this? Lucy set the bag down. Her face twisted, dissolving into bitter resentment. — You? You did nothing. But your daddy… — What has my father got to do with this? — He’s my father too! — Lucy’s voice rose, uncaring who overheard. — But he raised you, pampered you, while he abandoned me at age three! Never paid a penny, never called! Mum and I scraped by while he played happy families with your mother! So you, in a way, stole my dad from me! Emma recoiled, bumping against the door frame. — You’re lying… — Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Margaret Bennett and her daughter Lucy—the ones he dumped like rubbish! Emma slammed the door, sliding to the floor, her mind reeling. No… Dad couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The next morning she drove to her parents’. Rehearsing the question all the way, but when she saw her father—calm, reading the paper—her words wouldn’t come. — Emma! What a nice surprise! — Edward rose to greet her. — Mum’s at the shops, back soon. — Dad, I need to ask you… — Emma perched nervously on the sofa. — Do you know a woman called Margaret Bennett? Edward stiffened. The paper slipped from his hands. — How do you…? — Her daughter—my neighbour. The one I introduced to you. She claims you’re her father. Silence stretched endlessly. — Let’s go see her, — Edward said abruptly. — Now. I need to put this right. The drive took forty minutes. They didn’t speak. Emma stared out the window, trying to piece her shattered world together. Lucy opened the door straight away, as if expecting them. She sized them up, but stood aside. — Here for a confession? Thirty years late? — Here to explain. — Edward pulled a folded sheet from his jacket. — Read. Lucy took it, suspicious. As she read, her anger gave way to confusion, then stunned disbelief. — What…? — DNA test results, — Edward answered calmly. — I did one when your mother took me to court for child support. It proved I’m not your father. Margaret cheated. I’m not your dad. The paper slipped from Lucy’s fingers… Emma and Edward left Lucy’s flat. Back home, Emma hugged her father, burying her face in his jacket. — I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I doubted you. Edward stroked Emma’s hair, just as he’d always done when she ran to him after playground squabbles. — You’ve nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. Emma never patched things up with Lucy. After everything, she had no respect left for her neighbour—and no desire to reconnect.

Took My Father

Mum, Ive arrived! Can you believe it? Ive finally moved in!

Gemma pressed her phone between ear and shoulder, wrestling with a stubborn lock that seemed intent on testing her worth. The key turned grudgingly, as if weighing up the new owners resolve.

Oh, darling, thank heavens! And hows the flat? Is everything alright? Her mothers voice wavered between excitement and concern.

Its perfect! Bright and spacious. The balcony faces east, just as I wished. Is Dad there?

Im here, Im here! boomed Tom. Youre on speaker now. So, has the fledgling left the nest?

Dad, Im twenty-five. Hardly a fledgling.

Youll always be my fledgling. Checked the locks yet? Any drafts from the windows? The radiators?

Oh Tom, let her settle in! Mum interrupted. Gemma, be careful. New builds are unpredictable. You never know who might be living next door.

Gemma laughed, finally mastering the lock and stepping inside.

Mum, its not some grotty bedsit from the seventies. Its a decent place, decent people. Everything will be fine.

The following weeks dissolved into a single endless blurbetween DIY stores, furniture outlets, and the flat itself. Gemma fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues tucked under her pillow and woke up pondering grout shades for the bathroom tiles.

By Saturday, she stood in the living room scrutinising curtain swatches when the phone buzzed again.

Hows it all coming along? Dad enquired.

Slowly, but surely. Todays curtains. Cant decide between cream and dairy white. Any input?

I think theyre the same colour, just different marketing.

Dad, you just dont get the importance of shades!

But I do understand electrics. Wired the sockets properly?

The renovations gobbled up time, money, and patience, but every new touch transformed bare walls into something like a home. She chose her own milky-beige wallpapers for the bedroom, found a skilled carpenter for the flooring, and arranged the furniture to make her tiny kitchen appear roomy.

Once the last builder swept away the debris, Gemma slumped to the spotless lounge floor. Soft sunlight spilled through new curtains, carrying the scent of freshnessand a hint of paint. Her very first real home…

She met her neighbour three days after settling in, fumbling with keys at her door when a latch clicked across the corridor.

Oh, the new girl! A woman of about thirty poked her head out. Cropped hair, bold lipstick, inquisitive eyes. Im Harriet. I live opposite, so were neighbours now.

Gemma. Nice to meet you.

If you ever need sugar, salt, or just a natter, pop by. Its odd on your own in a new build, I remember.

Harriet made for pleasant company. They drank tea in Gemmas kitchen, exchanging tales about unreliable property managers and quirks of their floors layout. Harriet readily shared tips on the best broadband, an honest plumber, and which local shop had the freshest groceries.

Ive got this recipe for apple spongeabsolutely out of this world! Harriet scrolled through her phone. Ill send it to you. Takes half an hour, tastes like youve spent all day baking.

Oh yes please! I haven’t even tried the oven yet.

Days flowed into weeks, and Gemma was glad someone so friendly lived next door. Theyd bump into each other on the landing, sometimes swap coffees and books.

On Saturday Dad came over to help with a shelf that refused to stay up.

Youve bought the wrong plugs, Tom noted, examining the fixings. These are for plasterboard, but your walls are solid concrete. No worriesIve proper ones in the car.

An hour later the shelf was steady as a rock. Tom gathered his tools, inspected his handiwork, and nodded with satisfaction.

Well, thatll hold for the next twenty years.

Youre the best! Gemma hugged him.

They headed outside, chatting away about little thingswork, the new boss who always missed deadlines and lost paperwork.

Near the entrance, Harriet approached with shopping bags in hand.

Oh, hello! Gemma waved, Meet my dad, Tom. Dad, this is Harriet, my neighbour Ive told you about.

Pleasure, Tom gave his easy smile.

Harriet froze for a moment, her gaze flicking between Tom and Gemma. Her smile was awkward, almost pasted on.

Likewise, she replied sharply, then disappeared indoors.

After that, everything changed. Next morning Gemma greeted Harriet on the landing as usual, but got a frosty nod in return. Two days later, she invited her round for teaHarriet excused herself before Gemma could finish.

Then the complaints began

The first time a constable knocked it was nine at night.

Weve had reports of noise disturbances, the elderly officer said awkwardly. Loud music, banging.

Music? I was reading, Gemma replied, baffled.

Your neighbours arent happy

The complaints snowballed: letters to the management company about thundering footsteps, constant clatter, music at all hours. The policeman started popping by frequently, always apologetic, hands spread.

Gemma saw clearly where the storm brewedbut not why.

Each morning became a raffle: what now? Eggshell smeared on her front door? Coffee grounds crammed into the frame? A bag of potato peelings left beneath the mat?

She got up half an hour early to clean it all before work. Her hands burned from scrubbing, a lump in her throat that wouldnt go away.

This cant go on, she muttered one evening, researching video door viewers online.

It took twenty minutes to fit onetiny camera, disguised as a regular peephole, streaming everything to her phone. And then she waited.

She didnt have to wait long.

At three in the morning, her phone lit up with movement alerts. Gemma watched, incredulous, as Harrietin dressing gown and slippersmethodically smeared something dark on her door. Careful, practised, as if she did it every night.

The next night Gemma didnt sleep. She sat by the hall, ears pricked to every sound. At half two, she heard shuffling outside.

Gemma flung open the door.

Harriet froze, clutching a plastic bag. Something unpleasant squelched inside.

What have I done to you? Gemmas own voice sounded small and pathetic. Why are you doing this to me?

Harriet slowly set the bag on the floor. Her features twisted, dissolving into a bitter, old mask.

You? You havent done anything. But your darling daddy

What has my father got to do with it?

Hes my father too! Harriets voice was nearly a shout, uncaring who heard. He cherished you, raised you, gave you everything. Mehe abandoned when I was three. Not a penny, not a call! Mum and I barely scraped by while he played happy families with your mother! So youyou snatched my father!

Gemma backed away, her spine meeting the doorframe.

Youre lying

Ask him yourself! Ask whether he remembers Maureen Taylor and little Harrietwho he tossed aside like rubbish!

Gemma slammed the door and slid down to the floor. Only one thought echoed: not true, not true, no way. Dad couldnt. He couldnt.

In the morning, she drove to her parents. The question churned in her mouth until, seeing Dadcalm as ever, reading his paperher words stuck.

Gemma! What a nice surprise! Tom stood up. Mums at the shop, back soon.

Dad, I need to ask Gemma sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. Do you know a woman called Maureen Taylor?

Tom stiffened. The paper slipped from his hands.

How do you?

Her daughtermy neighbour. The one I introduced. She says youre her father.

Silence stretched on and on.

Lets go see her, Tom said abruptly. Now. I have to set things right.

It took forty minutes to get back. They rode in silence; Gemma watched houses flash by, her mind spinning apart.

Harriet answered instantly, as if waiting. She fixed them with a heavy stare but stood aside.

Come for penance? she barked at Tom. Three decades late?

Come to explain. Tom pulled a folded document from his jacket. Read this.

Harriet snatched the paper with suspicion. As she read, her expression unraveledfrom fury to bewilderment, from bewilderment to loss.

What?

DNA results, Tom replied quietly. I took the test when your mother tried to claim maintenance through the court. It saidIm not your father. Maureen cheated. Im not your parent.

The paper slipped from Harriets hands

Gemma and her father left the neighbours flat. Back home, she stepped forward and hugged Tom, burying her face in his old coat.

Im sorry, Dad. Sorry for believing her.

He patted her hairjust like he did when she ran to him after childhood squabbles.

Youve nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. The fault is with other people.

Relationship with Harriet never healed. And Gemma, after all the malice, felt no urge to try. Some things, some people, just lose respect forever.