I’m 45 and I No Longer Entertain Guests at Home: Why Celebrating in Restaurants Has Become My New Normal After Years of Hosting Rude, Overstaying Visitors and Exhausting Holiday Dinners

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 2 minViews 4

I’m 45, and I’ve stopped inviting people round to my house

There are some people who seem to forget theyre guests in someone elses home. They can be rude, start giving unsolicited advice, and are never in a hurry to head home.

I used to be someone who loved having people over, but my view quickly changed. Once I was past forty, I stopped asking people to visit. Whats the point? Theres nothing pleasant about dealing with those sorts of guests.

I celebrated my last birthday at a nearby pub, and honestly, I loved it from now on, thats what Ill do every time. Let me explain why.

Hosting a gathering at home in England really isnt cheap. Even putting together a simple dinner ends up costing a decent sum of pounds. If youre hosting something for the holidays, that bill just gets steeper. People will come with a token gift because, lets be honest, everyones tightening their belts these days. Then they stay until late, and once theyve gone, all I want is to relax, not tackle the mountain of washing up and cleaning thats been left behind.

I dont wait for anyone in my flat anymore. I tidy up and cook when it suits me. After parties at home, I used to feel absolutely shattered and rather down. Now, when Christmas is done, I can unwind, have a proper soak in the bath, and get an early night for a change.

Ive got more spare time these days, and I make the most of it. Friends might pop in for a cuppa, but I dont worry whether there are any fancy snacks about. I say exactly what I mean now. If I want some peace, I politely show them the way out. It might not be the done thing, but Im not bothered. My comfort comes first.

What still amazes me is that those who are first to visit others rarely, if ever, return the favour. Theyd rather socialise in someone elses house, avoiding all the effort of cleaning or cooking.

Do you invite guests round much? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the hospital with her newborn son. There was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun was shining, she wrapped herself in her now-loose coat, picked up her bag of clothes and documents with one hand, settled her baby more comfortably in the other, and walked away. She had nowhere to go. Her parents flatly refused to let her bring the baby home; her mum demanded she give him up. But Tanya herself had been raised in a children’s home—her own mother had abandoned her—and she’d sworn she’d never do the same to her child, no matter the cost. She’d grown up in a foster family. Her foster mum and dad were kind—almost indulgent—not having taught her self-sufficiency. Money was always tight, illness a frequent visitor. And of course, it was Tanya’s fault her son had no father; she knew that now. Her boyfriend had promised her the world, but the moment Tanya told him she was pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready for nappies and walked out of her life. She sighed. “No one’s ever ready—not the baby’s father, not my parents. Only me. I’m ready for my son.” Sitting on a bench in the spring sunlight, Tanya wondered where to go. She’d heard there were shelters for mothers like her, but she’d been too shy to ask—clinging to hope that her parents would come for her after all. They never did. Her plan was to head to a village where her grandmother lived. She hoped Gran would take her in—she could help with the garden while her child benefit lasted, then find work. Something had to go right for her, eventually. She adjusted her sleeping son, pulled out her battered old mobile to check where the village buses left from—and nearly stepped into the path of a car. The driver, a tall grey-haired man, shot from his car and shouted at Tanya for being careless: she could have killed herself and her child, and he’d have ended up in prison. Terrified, Tanya burst into tears, waking her baby, who also began to cry. The man’s tone softened; he asked where she was going. Sobbing, Tanya admitted she had no idea. “Right, hop in. You’ll come with me, calm down, and we’ll work something out. Come on, don’t stand there—your little one’s getting upset. I’m Konstantin Gregory, by the way. And you are?” “I’m Tanya.” “Get in, Tanya—let me help.” He took the young mum and her son to his spacious three-bedroom flat, giving her a room to feed the baby. There was nothing to change the baby into—Tanya asked Konstantin Gregory to buy nappies, giving him her last bit of money, but he refused. He rushed upstairs to his neighbour—a doctor—who happened to be home. After a quick phone call, she handed him a long shopping list for mother and baby. When Konstantin returned with the supplies, Tanya was drifting off to sleep, half-sitting with her son quietly awake beside her. Washing his hands, he picked up the baby so the young mum could rest. When Tanya woke and saw her boy gone, she panicked. Smiling, Konstantin Gregory brought the baby back, showing Tanya the things he’d bought. The helpful neighbour would visit soon to advise and arrange a check-up for the following day. Then he spoke: “There’s no need for you to run off to some village. Stay here with me—there’s plenty of space. I’m a widower, no kids or grandkids. My pension and wages are enough, and the loneliness is hard. I’d be glad of the company.” “Did you ever have children?” “Yes, Tanya. I had a son. I worked in the North—six months on, six months off. My son was at university; he had a girlfriend. He was going to marry her—she was expecting a baby. They waited for me to come back to have the wedding. But my son loved his motorbikes, lost control and was killed—just before I returned. I arrived for the funeral instead. My wife never got over it and passed away soon after. I lost touch with my son’s girlfriend, though I still had her photo and knew she was expecting. No matter how I tried, I never found her. Please, Tanya, stay with me. I’d like to know what a family feels like again. What’s your son’s name?” “I don’t know why, but I wanted to name him Samuel—I just like the name, even if it’s not common.” “Samuel? Tanya, that was my son’s name! I never told you that. You’ve made an old man very happy. Will you stay?” “Gladly. You see, I’m an orphan too, adopted but now unwanted because of my son. So no one came for me, and I have nowhere else. They gave me a good life but wouldn’t accept my child. I did get a flat from the council—they give one to kids leaving care—but my birth mother left me at the children’s home gates with only a chain and locket.” “Go on then, get changed—I bought you some clothes too. Then we’ll tend to the baby and the house. You need to eat well for your milk.” When Tanya emerged in her new outfit, Konstantin Gregory spotted her necklace. Was that the locket her birth mum left her with? Tanya said yes. He asked to see it. “Did you ever open it?” She said there were no fastenings. Gently, Konstantin Gregory showed her how—he’d commissioned this locket for his son. It popped open, revealing a tiny lock of hair inside. “These are my son’s. I put them there myself. So—you’re my granddaughter? It must be fate that brought us together!” “Let’s do a DNA test, just to be sure.” “Not a chance. You’re my granddaughter, that’s my great-grandson, and that’s the end of it. Besides, you look just like my son—I thought there was something familiar about you. I’ve got photos of your parents. Would you like to see them?” By Sofia Corolova