I’m 45 and I No Longer Host Guests in My Home: Why I Prefer Celebrating Special Occasions at Restaurants—and How Prioritising My Own Comfort Transformed My Social Life

Author Emily TaylorReading 2 minViews 9

Im 45 years old, and I no longer welcome guests into my home.

Some people, when they visit, forget that theyre guests. They can be impolite, offer unsolicited advice, and seem in no hurry to leave.

Once upon a time, I was incredibly hospitable, but my attitude shifted rather quickly. After I turned forty, I stopped inviting people over. Why should I bother? Hosting such guests is simply aggravating.

My last birthday, for example, I celebrated at a nice pub. I absolutely loved itand from now on, thats how Ill do it. Let me explain why I made this choice.

Throwing a gathering at home is expensive. Even an ordinary dinner requires quite a bit of money. If youre preparing for a festive event, it can cost even more. These days, guests show up with small, modest giftsafter all, times are tough for everyone. Then they stay late into the night. All I want is to relax, not to scrub piles of plates and tidy up the place afterwards.

Now, I dont wait around for anyone to visit my flat. I clean and cook as I please. I remember after hosting Christmas or family gatherings at home, I used to feel completely shattered and vaguely miserable. These days, after the holidays pass, I can just unwind, have a nice bath, and go to bed early.

With more free time on my hands, I try to use it wisely. I dont mind friends popping in for a cup of tea, but I dont worry if I dont have a tin of biscuits or nibbles at hand. I say what I mean without fuss. And if I want my own peace, I just politely hint its time to leave. Maybe it seems a bit blunt, but I dont really mind; my comfort comes first.

The most remarkable thing, Ive noticed, is that those who love calling round to others almost never invite guests themselves. Its so much easier for them to turn up elsewhere, have a laugh, and leave someone else with the cleaning-up and the cooking.

Do you still host guests at home? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?

Stole My Father – Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it, finally! Oksana balanced her phone against her shoulder, fiddling with the stubborn lock. The key turned with effort, as if testing its new owner’s mettle. – Darling, thank goodness! How’s the flat? Everything okay? – her mother’s voice buzzed with excitement and nerves. – Perfect! Bright, airy. East-facing balcony, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – Right here! – Viktor’s deep voice chimed in on speaker. – So, the chick has flown the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five! Not such a chick anymore. – You’ll always be my chick. Checked the locks? Windows sealed? Radiators… – Viktor, let her settle in! – interrupted Mum. – Oksana, be careful, love. It’s a new building, you never know your neighbours. Oksana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing the door open. – Mum, this place isn’t some dodgy 70s flat. It’s a nice building with decent people. I’ll be fine. The next few weeks blurred into a marathon between DIY shops, furniture outlets, and her new flat. Oksana fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues on her pillow and woke up pondering grout colours for the bathroom tiles. On Saturday, she stood in the middle of the living room, eyeing curtain swatches, when her phone buzzed again. – How’s it all coming along? – Dad wanted to know. – Slow but sure. Today it’s curtains. Torn between ‘ivory’ and ‘baked milk’. Opinions? – I reckon they’re the same colour with different salesmen. – Dad, you just don’t get shades! – But I do get electrics. Sockets all sorted? Renovation devoured her time, money and nerves; but each detail transformed the bare walls into a real home. Oksana chose the cream-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own laminate floor layer, and figured out how to arrange furniture so her tiny kitchen felt roomy. When the last worker cleared away the builder’s rubbish, Oksana sat on the gleaming living room floor. Warm light filtered through the new curtains, mingling with the scent of paint and fresh air. Her very first real home. She met her neighbour three days after moving in. Oksana was fiddling with the door when a lock clicked across the hall. – Oh, you’re the new girl! – A woman in her early thirties popped out, sporting a pixie cut, bright lipstick and curious eyes. – I’m Alice. Live right opposite, so we’re neighbours now. – Oksana. Nice to meet you! – Pop round for sugar, salt, or a chat anytime. It’s weird at first in a new build—I remember! Alice turned out to be great company. They had tea in Oksana’s kitchen, swapping stories about their management company and the quirks of the building’s layout. Alice had all the tips: the best broadband, the go-to handyman, the shop with the freshest groceries. – I’ve got a recipe for apple crumble—honestly, it’s out of this world! – Alice scrolled through her phone. – I’ll send it over now. Only half an hour and tastes like you’ve been baking all day. – Oh, yes please! I haven’t even tested the oven yet. Days melted into weeks, and Oksana was glad Alice lived nearby. They chatted on the landing, sometimes shared coffee, swapped books. On Saturday, Viktor dropped by to help with a shelf that refused to stay up. – Wrong wall plugs, – Dad diagnosed, inspecting the fittings. – These are for drywall; this is concrete. Never mind, I’ve got the right ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf was secure. Viktor packed his tools, surveyed his handiwork, and nodded in approval. – That’ll hold for twenty years! – You’re the best! – Oksana hugged him. They headed down the stairs, chatting about her job and her scatter-brained new manager. Outside, Alice appeared with supermarket bags. – Hi there! – Oksana waved. – Meet my dad, Viktor. Dad, this is Alice, the neighbour I mentioned. – Pleasure, – Viktor greeted her with his trademark warm grin. Alice froze briefly, scanning Viktor’s face and then Oksana’s. Her smile turned strange, as if pasted on. – Likewise, – she said curtly and hurried into the block. Everything changed after that meeting. The next morning, Oksana bumped into Alice and cheerfully greeted her, but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited Alice over for tea—Alice mumbled about being busy and dashed off. Then the complaints started… The local bobby knocked at her door at nine one night. – We’ve had reports of noise nuisance – loud music, banging about. – Music? – Oksana blinked. – I was reading! – Well, the neighbours are complaining… Complaints poured in: the management company received letters about ‘unbearable stomping’, ‘constant racket’, ‘blaring music at night’. The police visited regularly, always apologising. Oksana knew the source, but not the reason. Mornings became a lottery—what now? Eggshells smeared on her door? Coffee grounds packed between the frame and panel? A bag of potato peelings tucked under the mat? Oksana started rising thirty minutes early to clean up before work. Her hands stung from cleaning, a lump in her throat stuck fast. – This can’t go on, – she muttered one evening, researching video peepholes. It took twenty minutes to fit. A tiny camera, hidden in a normal-looking peephole, streamed everything to her mobile. Oksana waited. She didn’t wait long. At three in the morning, her phone lit up—motion detected. Oksana stared as Alice, in dressing gown and slippers, meticulously smeared some dark substance over her door, as if performing a well-practised chore. The next night, Oksana sat up in her hallway, alert to every sound. Just after half-past two, something rustled outside. She yanked the door open. Alice froze, clutching a bag; inside, something squelched unpleasantly. – What did I ever do to you? – Oksana was startled by how sad her own voice sounded. – Why are you treating me this way? Alice slowly lowered her bag. Her face twisted, handsome features blurring with old anger. – You? You did nothing. But your dear dad… – What’s my dad got to do with it? – Because he’s my dad too! – Alice actually shouted, forgetting the neighbours. – Only he raised you, pampered you, but abandoned me at three! Not a penny in child support, never a call! Mum and I barely got by while he built a happy family with your mum! So you, really, you stole my father! Oksana retreated, bumping into the doorframe. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Solovyova and the daughter Alice he dumped like rubbish! Oksana slammed the door and slid down to the floor in shock. One thought hammering: it can’t be true. Dad would never. Never. In the morning, she went to her parents. All the way, she rehearsed the question, but when she saw her father—calm, reading his newspaper—the words caught in her throat. – Oksana! What a surprise! – Viktor looked up. – Mum’s just nipped out, back soon. – Dad, I need to ask you something… – Oksana sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. – Do you know a woman named Marina Solovyova? Viktor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. – How do you… – Her daughter is my neighbour—the Alice I introduced you to. She says you’re her father. Silence dragged. – We need to go see her, – said Viktor, suddenly resolute. – Right now. I have to put this right. The drive to the flats took forty minutes. They didn’t speak. Oksana watched the buildings blur past, trying to piece her shattered world together. Alice opened the door straight away, as if she’d been waiting. She gave them both a heavy look, but stepped aside. – Come to confess? – she sneered at Viktor. – After thirty years? – Come to explain. – Viktor pulled out a folded paper from his jacket. – Read this. Alice took it warily. As she read, her face changed—from fury to confusion, confusion to uncertainty. – This… what? – DNA test result, – Viktor replied calmly. – I did it when your mum went to court for maintenance. It showed I’m not your father. Marina cheated. You’re not my daughter. The paper slipped from Alice’s hand… Oksana and her father left the neighbour’s flat. Back home, Oksana moved to her dad, hugging him tightly. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I believed her. Viktor stroked her hair, just like he used to when she fell out with friends as a child. – You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, love. Some things are never really our fault. After that, things weren’t the same with Alice. But Oksana didn’t want them to be. After those cruel tricks, any respect for her neighbour was gone forever.

02

Do I Remember? Impossible to Forget! “Polly, we need to talk… So, do you remember my illegitimate daughter, Annie?” My husband spoke in riddles—always a bad sign. “Hmm… Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for trouble. “I hardly know how to tell you… Annie is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “Oh, and why exactly, Alex? Where’s Annie’s husband? Run off, has he?” I was intrigued in spite of myself. “You see, Annie doesn’t have long to live. There’s never been a husband. Her mother moved abroad ages ago—remarried to an American. They haven’t spoken in years. Annie’s alone. That’s why she’s turning to us,” Alex shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. “So? What do you plan to do?” I’d already made up my own mind. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what I’ll do,” Alex finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made your mistakes, Alex, and now you want me to take responsibility for someone else’s child?” My husband’s helplessness infuriated me. “Polly, we’re a family. We have to decide together,” Alex tried to plead his case. “Oh, now you remember I’m your wife! Where was this ‘togetherness’ when you were sleeping with that girl?” Tears welled up and I fled the room. …Back at school, I was seeing my classmate Victor when Alex transferred in. I was smitten from the start. I quickly broke it off with Victor. When Alex noticed me, he started walking me home, giving me stolen flowers, and soon enough—we ended up in bed. I was completely in love. We finished school, and Alex was called up for military service in another city. We exchanged letters for a year before he came home on leave. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. Alex swore up and down that he’d marry me as soon as he returned for good. After those words, I melted every time he looked at me—it was true love. But six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had met “his true love” at the army base and wouldn’t be coming back. And there I was—pregnant, alone, abandoned at the altar. As my grandmother used to say: “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” …When my son, John, was born, Victor, my old classmate, came back into my life and offered to help. Out of desperation, I accepted. Our relationship turned romantic, but I never forgot Alex. Then, suddenly, he reappeared. Victor answered the door. Alex looked surprised to see him but wanted to come in. Victor reluctantly agreed. John, sensing something was up, clung to Victor for dear life, but I sent them out for a walk. “Were you married to him?” Alex asked jealously. “Why do you care? What do you want?” I snapped. “I missed you. But I see you have a family now. I’ll go,” Alex started to leave. “Wait, Alex. Tell me honestly—why are you here?” I tried to hold him back. My feelings were still there. “I came back for you, Polly. Will you take me back?” Alex looked hopeful. “Come on in—we’re about to eat,” I replied, my heart pounding. He was back. And that was all that mattered. Victor was sent packing once and for all. My John would have his real father, not a stepdad. Later, Victor married a lovely woman with two children of her own. …Over the years, Alex never really took to John—he assumed he wasn’t his own. Alex’s heart never warmed to him. To tell the truth, Alex was a hopeless philanderer, always swept up in new affairs. He cheated on me left and right—with friends, acquaintances, anyone. I wept, but I never stopped loving him. Oddly, loving him made life easier for me. The one who loves is always the happiest. I never had to lie or pretend, I just loved. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but each night I told myself: Where would I go? No one would ever replace him, and Alex would be lost without me. I was his lover, wife, and mother rolled into one. …Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he searched for affection elsewhere. I forgave everything, always. Once, our rows were so fierce that I kicked him out. He left to stay with family. A month later, long after I’d forgotten the argument, Alex still hadn’t returned. I had no choice but to visit his aunt. “Polly, why do you want him back? He said you’d divorced, he’s got a new girlfriend now,” she told me. From Alex’s aunt, I got the address, and went to see the new woman. “Good afternoon! Is Alex in?” I smiled as politely as I could. She gave me a smug look and slammed the door in my face. I walked away in silence. …A year later, Alex came back. The “new woman” had had a daughter, Annie. I’ve always blamed myself for kicking him out—all that followed would never have happened otherwise. From that moment on, I loved Alex even more fiercely, hoping to keep our family together. Alex and I never spoke of his illegitimate daughter, Annie. The very thought threatened to topple our fragile peace. Safer to keep the lid on. A child with some other woman? Stranger things have happened. But why do women always prey on other people’s husbands? That’s how life went on. Over the years, Alex settled down. The flings stopped. He spent his evenings at home, watching TV. Our son John married young and gave us three beautiful grandchildren. And now? All these years later, Annie has reappeared, asking us to take in her little girl. You have to wonder—how do you explain to John the arrival of a half-sister’s daughter? He knows nothing of his father’s wild youth. …Of course, we became legal guardians to five-year-old Alice. Annie died at thirty, her time cut short. Life goes on anyway. Alex sat John down “man to man” and confessed. Our son listened and concluded: “Whatever happened is in the past. I’m not here to judge. We have to take in the girl. She’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We raised a good boy, one with a heart. …Now Alice is sixteen. She adores Grandpa Alex, shares all her secrets with him, calls me “Nan” and swears she looks just like I did at her age. I agree wholeheartedly…

05

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I’m 45 and I No Longer Host Guests in My Home: Why I Prefer Celebrating Special Occasions at Restaurants—and How Prioritising My Own Comfort Transformed My Social Life