It was bucketing down outside, and Eleanor stood by the window of her small, tired little home, the sound of rain almost drowning out her quiet sobs. Life as a single mum to four kids was tough at the best of times, but lately, it felt downright hopeless. Piles of bills cluttered the kitchen counter, and dinner that night would once again be whatever odds and ends she could scrape together from the cupboards.
Just as she turned away from the window, something caught her eye.
A man—an elderly bloke, drenched head to toe, standing by the kerb with a slight limp, no coat, no umbrella. He looked lost. Like the world had forgotten him.
Without a second thought, Eleanor grabbed their only brolly, slipped on her wellies, and dashed outside into the lashing rain.
“Sir? You alright?” she asked gently.
He looked up, startled. “Oh, just passing through. I’ll be on my way.”
But Eleanor shook her head. “You’ll catch your death out here. Come inside—it’s not much, but you’re welcome.”
He hesitated, then nodded gratefully.
Inside, her four kids stared wide-eyed at the stranger. Eleanor handed him a towel and made him a proper cuppa. The old man, who introduced himself as Mr. Albert Whitmore, was quiet, polite, and carried a deep sadness about him.
That evening, he sat with the kids, telling them stories of his youth—the bluebell woods he used to explore, the little shed he’d built with his own hands. The children giggled, and for the first time in ages, the house felt warm, alive.
The next morning, Albert stood by the kitchen window, cradling his tea.
“You know,” he said, “this place reminds me of the home I built years ago. Small, but full of heart.”
Eleanor gave a small smile. “It’s all we’ve got.”
He turned to her, his gaze steady. “That’s why I want to give you something.”
From his coat, he pulled out a folded envelope and handed it to her. Eleanor opened it slowly—then gasped.
It was the deed to a cottage and land in the Cotswolds. Fully paid. Hers, if she wanted it.
“I was going to sell it,” Albert said softly. “But last night… you reminded me what a real home feels like. You took me in when no one else would. That kind of kindness deserves more than money.”
Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth, tears welling up. “I can’t accept this.”
“You must,” he said, smiling. “But on one condition.”
She stared at him, bewildered.
“Sell me this house for a quid,” he said. “That way, I’ll always have somewhere to come back to when I miss the sound of little ones laughing.”
And so she did.
That week, Eleanor and the kids moved into the cottage, complete with a blooming garden, an old stone barn, and endless green fields. The children ran wild with joy, finally free to stretch their legs in the fresh country air.
Albert moved into the little house he’d “bought” for a pound, visiting every weekend. The kids called him “Grandpa Bert.” He whittled them wooden toys, showed them how to grow runner beans, and read them tales under the stars.
And whenever anyone asked why he’d given it all away, he’d just smile and say:
“When someone gives you love without asking for a thing, the only right thing to do is give it back a hundredfold.”
