– “We’ll Stay at Yours for a While Since We Can’t Afford to Rent Our Own Place!” – My Friend Told Me. I’m an Active Woman of 65, Still Visiting New Places and Meeting Fascinating People, Fondly Remembering the Days When You Could Spend Your Holidays Wherever You Liked—Camping by the Seaside, Sailing Down Any River, or Heading Off with Friends, All on a Small Budget. Those Days Are Gone, but My Love for Meeting New People Remains. Years Ago on Holiday, I Befriended a Woman Named Sarah; Years Later, I Received an Anonymous Telegram: “My Train Arrives at Three in the Morning—Wait for Me at the Station!” Confused, We Stayed Home, But by Four, Sarah Arrived on Our Doorstep with Her Two Teenage Daughters, Gran, and a Man—All Their Possessions in Tow! They Expected to Live with Us Because We Lived Near Town and They Had No Money for Rent. Shocked but Polite, We Let Them In. After Three Days of Cooking, Cleaning, and Serving Guests Who Brought Food but Never Cooked, I Asked Them to Leave—Leading to a Dramatic Scene and Broken Dishes. When They Left, My Robe, Towels, and Even a Large Cabbage Pot Had Disappeared! That Was the End of Our Friendship—Thank Goodness! I’ve Never Seen Sarah Since, and I’m Much More Careful About Whom I Welcome Into My Home.

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 1

Well need to stay with you for a while, as we cant afford to rent a place of our own! my friend blurted out to me.

You know, Im quite an active woman, even at 65. I still love travelling about, seeing new faces and discovering interesting places. Sometimes I reminisce about my younger daysthose were the times! You could spend your holidays anywhere you fancied. Maybe a trip down to Brighton for the seaside, or a camping excursion with your mates in the countryside, or even a leisurely boat trip along the Thames. And none of it cost an arm and a leg, either.

But, of course, thats all behind me now.

Ive always genuinely enjoyed meeting new peoplewhether bumping into them on the beach, or during a night at the theatre. Over the years, I kept in touch and made longstanding friendships with quite a few of them.

One year, I became friends with a woman named Patricia. We met at a lovely little guesthouse while on holiday. We hit it off and parted ways as proper friends. For several years after, wed exchange letters and send each other Christmas and birthday cards. Then, out of the blue one day, a telegram arrived. No signature, nothing. Just: Train comes in at three in the morning. Wait for me at the station!

I hadnt the faintest idea whod sent it. Naturally, my husband and I ignored it and stayed put. But lo and behold, at four in the morning, theres a frantic knocking at the door. I opened up, and to my absolute astonishment, there was Patricia, along with two teenage girls, an older womanmustve been her mumand a chap I didnt recognise. They were loaded down with what looked like half their house! Both my husband and I were stunned, but still, we let them come in.

Patricia immediately insisted, Why didnt you come and collect us? I sent you that telegram! Getting a taxi at this hour cost a fortune!

I stammered, Sorry, but I had no clue who sent it!

She just said, Well, Ive got your address, and now were here.

I was still reeling, truly believing wed only ever write letters, nothing more.

Turns out, one of her girls had just finished school and was off to university here in town, so the whole family thought it best to turn up and support her.

Well be staying here with you. We simply cant afford rent, and your place is so central!

Well, I was completely gobsmacked. We werent even related. What on earth made them think it was fine for all of them to just move in? On top of that, we ended up feeding them three square meals a day. They brought over some groceries, but never cooked anything themselves, so I found myself running about after all of them.

After just three days, Id had enough. I asked Patricia and her lot to leave, not really caring where they went. Of course, that kicked off a proper rowPatricia started smashing plates and yelling like mad.

I couldnt believe how she carried on. Eventually, they all left, but not before pinching my dressing gown, a handful of towels, andsomehowa big cooking pot full of cabbage stew. To this day, Ive no idea how they managed to sneak that pot out!

And just like that, our friendship was over, thank goodness. Never saw or heard from her again. These days, Im much more careful about who I let into my life, Ill tell you that for free.

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