The flat belongs to me, Mum! And I don’t want my stepdad living here!
Get him checked by a doctor, Sarah. Hes not right in the head! And honestly, why is a sixteen-year-old boy dictating how we, as grown adults, live? Take the flat off him, and send him packing!
***
Sarah wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She was thirty-eight, but felt a hundred. It wasnt the children, the everyday grind, or even the endless shortage of money it was the folder containing paperwork sitting on the top shelf of the wardrobe, hidden beneath a pile of bed linen.
The front door slammed.
“Im home!” boomed Ians voice.
Sarah flinched. That voice used to make her smile, made her feel safe. Now it just made her tense.
Ian stomped into the kitchen without bothering to take his shoes off. He was a big, stocky man a tradesman with chapped hands and a perpetual scowl beneath thick brows.
“Why the glum face?” he asked, pecking her on the cheek more out of habit than affection. “The kids giving you grief again?”
“Its fine,” Sarah turned away to fuss over the saucepan. “Wash your hands. Dinners almost ready.”
Ian plonked himself on the old kitchen chair, which creaked under his weight.
“Wheres Adam?” he asked, looking around.
“In his room. Doing homework.”
“Doing homework, is he? Bet hes glued to his phone instead. Did you tell him he needs to take the bins out? Or do I have to do it again?”
“Hell do it, Ian. Just let him eat first.”
Ian grunted, drumming his fingers on the table a rhythm Sarah knew well, the warning beat of another brewing argument.
“Listen, Sarah,” he said, just as she set a bowl of stew in front of him. “Ive been thinking about that flat.”
Sarah went still, ladle raised. Here we go again. Same row, every day, stuck on repeat like a worn record.
“Ian, weve talked about this,” she said quietly.
“And what, thats it?” Ians voice went up, with his spoon clattering against the bowl. “You said no, and its case closed? Use your head. That place is just sitting there, all done up, while were packed in like sardines, counting pennies! Have you seen Lucys shoes? The soles are hanging off!”
“The flat isnt mine, Ian. Its Adams.”
“Hes sixteen!” shouted Ian. “Sixteen! What does he need a flat for? To bring girls back? By the time hes left school, started at uni, and then worked, who knows how long thatll take? And in the meantime, we could be renting it out. Have you checked? Its over a thousand quid a month! Thatd cover shoes, food, even pay off the car loan quicker.”
Sarah sat opposite him, fingers intertwined. The conversation hurt physically, like a cramp in her chest.
“It was a gift from his nan and granddad. His fathers parents. They bought it for their grandson. Not for us, not for your car, or Lucys shoes, or anyone else. Its for Adam. So he gets a head start.”
“What head start?” Ian snapped, throwing his spoon aside. “Is he some sort of toff? Hes got a family! Families share. Weve got three kids together, Sarah! They need eating and wearing, dont they? And he he swans around as if hes lord of the manor. Selfish.”
A tall figure appeared in the kitchen doorway: Adam. Hed grown gangly and awkward over the summer, his face set in a defensive scowl that spoke of old wounds.
“Im not lord of anything,” he muttered, glaring at Ian. “And Im not selfish.”
“Oh, so you came, did you?” Ian sneered. “Eavesdropping?”
“Youre so loud the neighbours can hear you. Ian, that flats mine. Nan Brenda and Granddad Geoff said its just for me. So I can move out as soon as I’m eighteen.”
“So thats what they said, is it?” Ians face flushed. “Move out? Were ruining your life, are we? We feed you, clothe you, put a roof over your head, and you cant wait to run off?”
“Yes, I cant!” Adam shouted, his voice cracking, high and shrill. “Youre always going on at me! Always banging on about your rules! Well, now Ill have my own place. My own rules!”
“You cheeky pup!” Ian leapt up, knocking over the chair. “Is that how you talk to your father?”
“Youre not my dad!” Adam blurted. “My real dads gone. Youre just Mums husband. And you hate me.”
Adam spun around and ran from the kitchen. His bedroom door slammed the tiny box he shared with Paul and Sam.
An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by the hiss of soup bubbling on the cooker.
Ians breath misted the window as he leaned on the table.
“Did you hear that?” he rasped. “All those years raising him, and Im not his dad. Ten years, since he was six! And all I get is that Im nothing to him!”
“Ian, calm down,” Sarah rose, trying to hug her husband, but he jerked away.
“Dont touch me. Ive killed myself for him, and he spits in my face. All over that bloody flat. Spoilt with handouts. Only grandchild, they said. What about my lot, then? Dont they count?”
“Your parents, Ian,” Sarahs voice hardened, “havent given a penny to the grandkids in over a decade. Just WhatsApp cards every Christmas. They go on holidays, got a new car, but never bought Lucy a doll. Adams grandparents lost their son, and Adam is all they have left. If they want to spoil him, thats their right.”
“Oh, just drop it,” muttered Ian, grabbing his phone and stepping out onto the balcony. Sarah knew who hed call his mother, Mrs. Thompson, to moan about how unfair life was and his ungrateful stepson.
***
The evening crawled by, heavy with silence. Ian pointedly ignored Adam. Adam stayed shut in his room. Sarah darted between them, frantic, juggling the younger ones tea and her own nerves.
The next day, Saturday, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Mrs. Thompson energetically brash, with a perm and opinions on everything.
“Afternoon, everyone!” she breezed in, carrying a boxed cake. “Put the kettle on, dear, we need a chat.”
Sarah exhaled, resigned. Mrs. Thompsons visits were rarely good news.
Once everyone was seated (except Adam, who refused to come out), Mrs. Thompson dove straight in.
“Ian told me everything about the flat,” she said, helping herself to cake. “And I must say, the way I see it, youre thinking too small.”
“What do you mean?” queried Ian.
“Renting it out? Its peanuts! Youll just end up having to pay for repairs when the tenants move out. No, what you need to do is sell it,” Mrs. Thompson pronounced with authority.
Sarah nearly choked on her tea.
“Excuse me?”
“Sell it!” Mrs. Thompson beamed. “Nice place, isnt it? Worth, what, half a million? You sell up, split the money between all the children. Each of them gets the same Adam, Lucy, the boys. For their education, to set them up. Thats fair. Were a family! Why should one have everything and the other three have nothing?”
Ian scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Theres something to that. Fairness.”
“Fairness?” Sarah shot up, knocking her teacup over. Scalding tea ran across the tablecloth unnoticed. “Are you serious? Its not our flat! Its in Adams name! Weve no right to sell it!”
“Oh, dont be daft,” Mrs. Thompson waved a dismissive hand. “Youre his mother and guardian. Its not hard to get permission, say its for the childrens welfare or put the money in trust. We have to set a principle you cant single out one child over the others. Itll only breed jealousy. Shared equally, theyll all get along. Adam will thank you when his siblings are educated too.”
“You you” Sarah was shaking with anger. “So you want to take from my son, from his late father, from the grandparents who spent every penny on that flat, just to provide for your grandkids? What have you ever done to help?”
“Dont look in my pocket!” Mrs. Thompson retorted. “Were pensioners, we deserve a rest! Adams got plenty. Ian feeds him your late ex, God rest him, cant exactly pay child support, can he? But Ian works hard, so Adam should contribute to the family.”
Just then, the kitchen door burst open. Adam stood there, his face white, hands shaking around his sports bag.
“I heard everything,” he said quietly.
Ian and Mrs. Thompson fell silent, watching him.
“I heard it,” Adam repeated, voice firming. “Youre after taking everything. Fair share.”
“Adam, love, you misunderstood” Mrs. Thompson soothed, sickly sweet.
“I understood perfectly!” Adam shouted. “You hate me! Im just a burden, a mouth to feed! You only want my flat so you can divvy it up!”
He turned to Sarah.
“Mum, Im leaving.”
“Where would you go? Adam, wait!” Sarah rushed to him.
“Im going to Nan Brendas. I called her shes waiting for me. I cant stay here. He” Adam jabbed a finger at Ian, “hell be the death of me. Yesterday, he told me my dad was a drunk waster and that Ill turn out just the same.”
Sarah froze, slowly turning to face Ian.
“You you actually said that?”
Ian reddened, looking away.
“I it just slipped out. To teach him a lesson. Stop him being big-headed.”
“To teach him a lesson?” Sarah whispered. “My first husband was an engineer. He didnt drink. He died saving people at work. You know that. How could you say that?”
“Hes just so he drives me mad!” Ian burst out. “Parading around as if he owns the place! My flat! Youre not my dad! What am I? The family workhorse? Im tired, Sarah. I want a proper life, not this scrambling to payday while his flat sits there unused! Yes, Im jealous! Yes, it gets to me! Why should he be handed everything, and weve got nothing for our kids?”
“Because thats life, Ian!” Sarah screamed. “Some get, some dont. You dont rob from an orphan to give to your lot. Thats just low!”
Adam was already lacing his shoes in the hallway.
“Mum, Im off. Ill leave the keys. To my flat.”
He put the set down on the table.
“Do what you want. Let, sell, whatever. Choke on it. Just leave me alone.”
He wrenched the door open.
“Adam!” Sarah grabbed his arm. “Dont! Thats yours! No ones selling anything not on my watch. Over my dead body!”
Adam met her gaze, eyes shining.
“Youre his wife, Mum. Youll choose him in the end. Youre a family. Im just the leftover, from your first marriage. A mistake.”
“Dont say that! Youre my son! My first, my absolute everything!”
“Let go, Mum. I have to go. Right now.”
He pulled free, running down the stairs.
Sarah slumped to the floor, sobbing with her face in her hands.
Mrs. Thompson, seeing things spiralling, stood up hurriedly.
“Oh, dont make such a scene He needs a doctor, Sarah. Off his rocker, that one. Ill be off. Do finish the cake; its lovely.”
She hurried out, leaving mother and son-in-law among the debris of their family night.
Ian stood frozen in the kitchen, staring at the half-eaten cake. The rage drained away, replaced by something heavy and sticky: shame.
He heard his wife sobbing in the hall. He remembered Adam at seven, handing him a lopsided card for Fathers Day: “To Dad Ian.” There was a wonky green tank drawn on it. Adam hadnt known Ian wasnt his real father then. When he found out, something broke. And rather than mend it, Ian had just hammered harder.
“Im an idiot,” he said out loud.
Sarah raised her head, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
“What?”
“Im an idiot, Sarah. A proper one.”
He crossed to the hallway and sat beside her on the floor.
“Hes right. Im jealous. Im nearly forty, nothing to my name but debt. Hes sixteen and already set. And his grandparents theyre brilliant. Mine Mum just stirred it up and left. And I let it get to me.”
He took Sarahs hand. It was cold.
“Im sorry. What I said about his dad I shouldnt have. I just wanted to hurt him, because I was hurting. It was cowardly.”
“You almost lost him, Ian,” Sarahs voice was quiet. “And me. If he left if he stayed away Id never have forgiven you.”
“I know. Ill go after him.”
“Where?”
“To his grandparents house. Hell either bus it or get a lift. Ill drive. Ill find him.”
“He wont want to see you.”
“He will. Ill make sure of it. I mean Ill apologise. Properly, from the heart.”
Ian grabbed his coat and picked up Adams keys from the side.
“Theyre his. He decides. If he wants the place empty, thats his choice. Or if he wants to have mates over. Thats his business. Were grown-ups, Sarah. Well cope. Ill pick up extra shifts taxi work or something in the evenings. Cant go taking from a lad.”
Sarah looked up at him, and for the first time in weeks, her eyes sparkled with hope.
“Bring him back, Ian. Please. Tell him we love him. Tell him hes not a mistake. Hes ours.”
“I will.”
***
Ian found Adam at the bus stop. The boy sat hunched on the bench, bag at his feet. No bus in sight yet.
Ian parked, got out, and approached. Adam, spotting him, leapt up and snatched his bag, ready to bolt.
“Wait!” Ian called. “Im not here to argue!”
He came closer, hands raised in surrender.
“Adam, hold on.”
“What do you want? Forgot to nick the keys?” Adam spat.
Ian dug in his pocket and held the keys out.
“Yeah. I forgot to give these back. Take them.”
Adam eyed the keys, then Ian.
“Theyre yours,” Ian said simply. “No ones taking them from you. Mum wont let them, and me neither. Grandma Toms gone too far. I called, told her to back off.”
“And what about you?” Adam shot back, still bristling. “You wanted to rent it, remember?”
“I did,” Ian nodded. “Acted like an idiot. Im ashamed, Adam. Especially about your dad I lied. He was a good bloke. Mum told me. He was a hero. I wanted to hurt you. Im sorry.”
Adam stayed silent, wind tossing his hair.
“Im not perfect, Adam. Always skint, noise, stress But you youre part of this family. Ive known you since you were in Year One. Remember how we learnt to ride bikes? When you grazed your knees and I carried you home?”
“I remember,” Adam mumbled, dropping his eyes.
“I called you son then. Still do, really. I just forgot for a bit. Got obsessed over money.”
Ian came closer.
“Come home, eh? Your mums worried sick. Shes crying.”
“Shes crying?”
“Pouring her heart out. Said she cant cope without you. The boys woke up asking for their brother.”
Adam sniffed, his huge hurt shrinking, like a pricked balloon.
“And the flat?” he asked, voice small.
“Its yours. Full stop. Live there someday if you want. But right now Id rather you stayed with us a bit longer. Wed miss you.”
Adam took the keys, gripping them tight, chilled metal warming in his palm.
“Alright,” he said. “Lets go. Mum needs to know not to cry.”
“Ill tell her. Or you can.”
Back in the car, Ian started the engine but hesitated.
“Tell you what, Adam. Forget stew how about pizza? Pepperoni, large, and some Coke. We wont tell your mum about the fizzy drinks.”
Adam managed a small smile.
“Yeah. But get chips for Paul and Sam. Theyll want some.”
“Sorted.”
The car pulled away, tracing the now much-less-scary road home. The row that nearly tore the family apart was left to dissolve, lost somewhere among the tail-lights and evening drizzle behind them. Ahead were pizza, chips, and, perhaps, a long kitchen chat without any shouting. Sometimes, you have to nearly lose your family to understand just how much they mean.
