At It Again, Are You? I’m the Man of This House—I’ll Decide Who Moves In, Not You. Careful, Or You Might Be the One Moving Out… “Really? You?” Ivan Smirked—”Remember Who Actually Owns This Place?” *** It Was Another Rough Morning at Their Flat, Not That Mornings Were Ever Easy Here. The Sun Mockingly Beamed Through the Window, But Ivan’s Room Remained Dim—Probably Because He Hadn’t Slept a Wink. Grumpy and Exhausted, He Tossed and Turned All Night, Then Got Up to Do Chores, and as Soon as He Settled into Bed Again… “Ivan!” Came the Thunderous Roar from the Hallway. “Where are you? Get out here! Are you still sleeping?” Ivan groaned in despair, burying his head beneath the pillow. Here we go again. His father, Michael Stevenson—just plain Mike—was up to his usual morning antics. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. “Getting ready for work, Dad,” Ivan croaked, prying his eyelids open. “I’m going to be late.” Truthfully, he could have enjoyed another hour lounging around. He desperately needed the rest. “What do you mean, work?” Mike was already looming in Ivan’s doorway, seeming much taller than his average height. “You’re not getting ready at all, just lazing about… Get up already! I need money!” Ivan propped himself up on an elbow. Here we go—money. The classic. “What for?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “You’re acting like a child,” Mike sighed theatrically, “Were you born yesterday? Need me to spell it out? I’m taking Lucy out for dinner. Somewhere nice. Got to impress her, you know. Can’t just take her for a walk—she’s not easily wowed.” “She”—meaning, of course, that Lucy loved spending other people’s money; without it, Mike had no chance. His father had lost all sense of balance lately. Everything he earned disappeared into “grand gestures,” and then he turned to Ivan with endless requests—more often, demands. “Dad, I’m short myself,” Ivan tried his usual negotiation tactic for the hundredth time. “Only just enough for this week’s bus fare and lunch. Besides, we had to replace the plumbing, remember?” Ivan was seriously out of pocket—and not particularly keen to finance his father’s love life. “Short?!” Mike raised his brows, as if Ivan was asking him for a handout. “How can you be short? Find some. This isn’t for anybody—this is for your old man! Anyway…” he rifled through Ivan’s wallet, “I’m the head of this house! Your money’s my money! Got it? You’ll do as I say – and I’ll take what I need.” Naturally, the wallet was empty. Ivan’s remaining wages were safely on his card. “Where’s the cash? I asked where’s my money in my own flat?!” That’s when Ivan smirked. “Are you sure this is your flat, Dad? Certain?” Mike paused his looting, leaving the wallet and the bag alone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he mumbled. “It means you know as well as I do,” Ivan said, sitting up on the bed. “It was always Grandma Anne’s flat—and she left it to me. She knew what her son was like with money, that you couldn’t be trusted. You’d lose the lot…” Grandma Anne was a shrewd woman. She’d seen her son Mike stumble into financial disasters more than once, thanks to his carefree spending. When he sold her gifted car and gambled away the proceeds in under a week, Ivan had already come of age and was able to help his dad out of debt. That’s when Grandma took precautions and put the flat in Ivan’s name. On paper and in practice, Ivan was the owner—he paid for everything from groceries to the very slippers on Mike’s feet. Whereas Mike, like a pampered teenager, only showed up to eat, sleep, and ask for more. “So, Dad,” Ivan stood up, feeling, for the first time, like anything but a kid. “Here, I call the shots. My money is my money. And if you want to wine and dine Lucy, you’d better find another way.” Mike tried to reply, but the words got stuck. Rage turned to a low hiss. “I’ll remember this…” “Do. Remember it when you’re eating my food—since you never buy any yourself. Make sure you do.” It wasn’t easy. Ivan loved his dad, but he couldn’t keep living life as his servant. He was the owner here. If Dad didn’t like it, no one was forcing him to stay. That evening ended with more of Mike’s complaints. Coming home from work, Ivan found the flat filled with people. Mike, of course, took the best spot, half-drunk among his mates—with Lucy chattering away, never mind the double meanings. “And here’s my sonny boy!” Mike proclaimed as Ivan walked in. “He’s finally graced us! Maybe his conscience is kicking in! Look here, fellas! My own flesh and blood—doesn’t give his dad the time of day, hides his money, tries to kick me out, thinks he owns the place!” Ivan paused in the kitchen doorway. He didn’t feel angry—just bone-tired. “Dad,” he said, “What’s with the circus? You can put on a show all you want, but I’m not letting your mates hang out here. Please leave. I’ve got work early tomorrow.” The guests fidgeted, some stood up, but Mike stopped them with a gesture: “What?” he snarled. “You’re chucking my friends out? Out of my own house? Bit soon to be throwing your weight around, isn’t it?” But as far as Ivan was concerned, it wasn’t too soon at all. “It’s my house, Dad,” Ivan corrected him, and everyone seemed to shrink. “And yes, I’m asking you all to leave. You can stay if you like, but your mates? No chance.” Everyone turned to Ivan. Lucy clung to Mike, not sure whether to leave or brazen it out. The other men, who’d been laughing, now wore sour faces. “Come on, lads,” muttered one, getting up. “Yeah, Mike, that’s enough for tonight,” added another. “Time to call it.” Seeing his company falling away, Mike hissed through his teeth: “You’ve made me a laughing-stock! Your own father!” “Well, maybe a father who still needs teaching hasn’t really grown up.” “We’ll see how cocky you are later!” Ivan ignored him and retreated to his room, shutting the door and crawling into bed. Tomorrow would only be worse—Dad would throw another tantrum, or round up his crowd again. But that was tomorrow. Tonight, Ivan just wanted to sleep. The next morning was bright again, but Ivan wasn’t in the mood for sunshine. Dad was sulking—silent, ghosting about the flat. Ivan, realizing he might have been too harsh in front of the guests, decided to make peace. “Dad,” he said as Mike passed his door. Mike stopped without turning. “I’m sorry,” said Ivan. “I got carried away last night, especially in front of your mates. I didn’t mean to embarrass you—I was just tired after work and wanted some peace. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you in public.” Then Ivan took out his wallet. “Here,” he said, holding out money. “For dinner. Take Lucy out, alright?” Mike finally turned around. “Yeah? You serious?” he beamed. “Dead serious,” Ivan nodded. Mike grabbed the cash. “Brilliant! Knew you’d see sense!” And off he went, no doubt to get ready for his date. Ivan watched him go, feeling empty. He’d given his dad money. Peace restored. But it didn’t feel right. All day, one question gnawed at Ivan: the flat. He no longer wanted to live with a fifty-something man acting like a teenager. Move out? Ridiculous—the flat was his; why pay rent elsewhere? But could he really kick his dad out? It felt unthinkable—it was still his dad, after all. Where would Mike go? No answer. Weary, Ivan napped as the evening wore in. Last night’s “circus” had done him in. Mike was out late with Lucy, and when they returned… “Ivan? You up?” Mike entered in his best clothes. “We won’t be long.” Lucy poked her head in too. “Hello,” Ivan sat up, nerves jangling. “Hi, Ivan darling,” Lucy purred. “And… So, we talked everything over tonight—she’s moving in with us!” Mike blurted out. Ivan jumped up. “What? No one’s moving in here!” Mike froze, stunned by Ivan’s reaction—he thought the morning’s apology meant everything else would slide. “At it again?! I’m the man of this house—I’ll decide who moves in, not you! Careful, or you might be the one moving out…” “You?” Ivan smirked, “Remember whose name is on the deeds?” “I couldn’t care less about your papers!” Mike shouted, though remembering Lucy, softened his tone. “Ivan, come on—where else would we meet? We want to live together, it’s normal for a man to bring his lady home…” “No,” said Ivan flatly. “And if you don’t quit it, there’ll be nobody left here but me.” Mike shook with rage. Deep down, what really ate at him was that his own son, in front of his new woman, dared to set the rules. “Fine,” he spat, “Let’s see who wins this one.” *** Next evening brought shock. Coming home from work, Ivan saw something scattered beneath the windows—his clothes, books, and belongings, strewn on the pavement and bench below. “What the—” he muttered, rushing over. He raced upstairs. The door was locked, and his key didn’t fit. Mike had changed the locks. “Dad!” Ivan shouted, banging. “Open up!” “Get lost!” Mike barked from inside. “This is my house! I don’t care what the documents say! Your things are outside!” “I’ll break down the door!” “Go ahead and try!” Ivan didn’t linger by the steel door; he realized Mike wouldn’t open. Did he really think he’d take over by force? Ivan could have called the police, but doubted they’d relish prying a stubborn old man out of his son’s flat at night. In any case, that battle could wait till morning. First, he had to rescue his stuff. He hurried outside, finding some of his clothes already being collected by a neighbor—Katie, the girl from the third stairwell. She’d come to help. “Are you alright?” she asked, gently lifting his favorite hoodie. “Why did he do this?” “He’s lost it,” said Ivan simply, grabbing his jeans. “I told him no more friends over—he didn’t like that. And the flat’s mine. It’s a long story.” “Oh, Ivan…” she shook her head. “You can stay at ours if you like—we’ve got a spare room.” “Thanks, Katie,” Ivan smiled. “I might take you up on that. I can’t face dragging all this to a hotel, and I plan to be back soon anyway…” Staying with Katie and her mum was strange, but actually lovely. For the first time in ages, Ivan felt safe: chatting over evening tea, swapping stories, nobody lurking at night or demanding money… The next morning, as soon as Mike and Lucy left (Ivan watched from Katie’s window), Ivan hurried over and brought his locksmith. “Here,” Ivan handed him his passport and title deeds. “Break the locks. This is my flat.” The locksmith made quick work of it. Within minutes, Ivan was home. “Thanks,” he said. “Please fit new locks straight away.” While the locksmith worked, Ivan wasted no time gathering up his dad’s and Lucy’s things—he didn’t throw them out the window as Mike had, though he could have. He just packed everything nicely into bags and set it all out on the landing. Just then, as Ivan came back in, someone tried the lock from outside. “What the… locked out? The key won’t work… They changed the locks!! Ivan, are you in there?” “Don’t bother knocking,” Ivan called out loud enough to be heard. “You’re not getting the new keys.” “You kicked me out?!” “What did you expect?” Ivan replied. “Open the door! My things are inside!” Lucy shrieked. “They’re on the landing,” Ivan replied, stepping out. “Turn around, you’ll see them. I’m not so petty as to keep your things or throw them away like you did with mine.” Mike tried to force his way back in, but Ivan—though shorter—stood his ground in the doorway. “Go home, Dad,” he said. “Take Lucy. I warned you: keep this up, and there’ll be no one left here but me. But after trying to throw me out without warning—pulling a stunt like that? No way.” Mike, realizing he’d lost, hissed, “I’ll see you in court!” But Ivan knew there’d be no court case. He’d just made it clear—the games were over. That evening, as Ivan started his third load of laundry—everything had to be washed after being outside—Katie popped in with a homemade cake. “Hey,” she smiled. “Thought I’d cheer you up. Mind if I come in?” “Sure.” “I guess the talk with your dad didn’t go well…” “Oh, I don’t know,” Ivan grinned. “Dad’s decided to move out.” “On his own?” “Absolutely,” Ivan said, smiling. Then he told her the whole story. “Well, I think I’d have chucked their suitcases from the window,” Katie teased. “You handled it pretty well.” And somehow, the two of them felt just right together.