I’m 45 and I No Longer Welcome Guests Into My Home Some people, when they visit, completely forget they’re guests. They’re rude, offer unsolicited advice, and overstay their welcome. I used to be incredibly hospitable, but my attitude changed quickly. Once I hit forty, I stopped inviting people over. Why should I bother? Dealing with inconsiderate guests is simply frustrating. This year, I celebrated my birthday in a restaurant, and I absolutely loved it—it’s what I’ll do from now on. Let me tell you why. Hosting a gathering at home is expensive. Even a simple dinner requires a substantial outlay. If you’re organising a festive celebration, the costs go up even more. Guests turn up with token gifts—times are tough, after all—and then linger well into the night. I want to relax, not spend hours washing up and cleaning afterwards. I no longer wait for anyone within my own four walls. I clean and cook on my own schedule. In the past, after hosting festive parties at home, I’d feel exhausted and deflated. Now, after the holidays, I can take a nice bath and get an early night. I have plenty of free time and use it wisely. My friends are welcome to pop in for a cuppa, but I never stress about not having treats to serve. These days, I speak my mind freely. If I want to rest, I’ll point guests towards the door. It might not seem very polite, but I don’t care. My comfort comes first. And here’s the funniest thing: the people who love showing up at others’ homes for a good time never seem to host themselves. It’s easier to enjoy yourself in someone else’s space without worrying about cleaning or cooking. Do you still host guests? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 min

Im 45 now, and Ive put a stop to having guests round my house.

Some people, once they cross your threshold, seem to forget theyre guests at all. They can be plain rude, offering all sorts of unsolicited advice, and never seem in a hurry to leave.

I used to be extremely hospitable, but thats changed over the years. Once I hit forty, I simply stopped inviting people over. Why bother? Having certain guests is just more trouble than its worth.

I celebrated my last birthday in a nice little pub. It was brilliant Ive decided Ill do that every year now. And heres why.

Hosting a get-together at home isnt cheap. Even a simple dinner costs a decent chunk of your wages, and if youre trying to put on a Christmas do, you can easily spend even more. The guests tend to turn up with modest presentscant blame them, the cost of living isnt easy for anyone these days. But then they linger until well past midnight. Honestly, when it ends, all I want is a good rest, not a night scrubbing pans and tidying up after everyone.

Ive stopped waiting for anyone in my flat. I clean and cook when it suits me, not for an audience. In the past, after hosting holiday gatherings, Id be completely worn out and feeling rather low. Now, when the holidays are over, Ive got time to soak in the bath and turn in early. What a relief.

With all the free time I have now, I use it wisely. Friends may pop by for a cup of tea, but I dont stress if I havent got any biscuits to hand. Im much more open about what I need. If I want peace and quiet, I show them to the doorand if that makes me seem blunt, well, so be it. My comfort comes first at this stage of my life.

What strikes me most is how those who happily show up at other peoples homes never seem to reciprocate. They much prefer enjoying themselves on someone elses turf, without having to bother with the mess or the preparations.

Do you still welcome guests? Would you call yourself a hospitable sort these days?

Looking back, Ive realised that its perfectly fine to put myself first. I used to think saying no was rude, but now I know that preserving my peace is far more important than keeping up appearances.

Mum, Please Smile Arina never liked it when the neighbours came over and asked her mother to sing a song. “Anna, sing us a tune, your voice is lovely and you dance so well,” they’d say. Her mother would begin singing, the neighbours would join in, and sometimes they’d all dance together in the courtyard. Back then, Arina lived with her parents and her younger brother, Tony, in their own house in an English village. Her mother was cheerful and welcoming, and when the neighbours left, she’d say, “Come again sometime, it was lovely to spend time together,” and they’d promise they would. But Arina couldn’t explain why she felt embarrassed when her mother sang and danced. She was in Year 5 at the village school when she finally said, “Mum, please don’t sing and dance… I get embarrassed,” though she didn’t quite understand why herself. Even now, as a grown woman and a mother herself, Arina can’t explain what she felt. But Anna replied, “Arina, darling, don’t be ashamed when I sing—be happy! I won’t always sing and dance, not when I’m older…” But back then, Arina didn’t think about how life isn’t always joyful. When she was in Year 6, and her brother was in Year 2, their father left. He packed his bags and left forever. Arina never knew the reason. As a teenager, she asked, “Mum, why did Dad leave us?” “You’ll know when you’re older,” her mother replied. Anna couldn’t bear to tell her daughter that she’d caught her husband at home with another woman, Vera, who lived nearby. Arina and Tony were at school, but Anna came home early after forgetting her purse. Surprised to find the door unlocked at eleven in the morning, she walked in and saw the devastating scene in their bedroom. Her husband and Vera stared at her, as if she was the intruder. There was a terrible row that evening. Anna packed his things and told him, “Go. I will never forgive your betrayal.” Ivan tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen. “You have my things and my final answer,” she said, and left for the garden. Ivan took his things and left while Anna watched discreetly from around the corner, too hurt to face him again. “We’ll survive somehow,” she thought, as tears streamed down her face. “But I’ll never forgive.” And she didn’t. Anna was left alone to raise two children and soon realised how hard it would be. She took two jobs—cleaning by day and working nights at the local bakery. Exhausted, her smile slowly vanished. Though her father lived only four houses down with Vera, Arina and Tony still saw him. Vera had a son Tony’s age, who was in the same class as him. Anna never forbade her children from seeing their father; they’d play together, but always ate at home as Vera never fed them. Sometimes, even Vera’s son would come to their house, to the neighbours’ surprise. Anna would feed them all; she didn’t resent her ex-husband’s stepson. But from then on, Arina never saw her mother smile. Anna was kind and caring, but closed in on herself. Sometimes, Arina would come home from school wanting her mum to talk to her. She’d offer up stories from her day, like, “Mum, imagine, today Genka brought a kitten to class, it started meowing during lessons, and even the teacher couldn’t work out who it was. We told her it was in his bag, and she sent both Genka and the kitten home, calling his mum to school.” To this, her mum could only reply, “Right… I see…” Her laughter had gone. But Arina often heard her crying softly at night. It was only when she was older that Arina understood her mother’s tiredness. “She worked two jobs, staying up at night; she must’ve been exhausted and probably lacked vitamins. She always made sure Tony and I were well-dressed and our clothes were clean and ironed,” Arina later recalled. Back then, she’d often beg, “Mum, please smile—I haven’t seen your smile for so long.” Anna loved her children in her own way. She didn’t often hug them, but would praise them for good grades and never causing trouble. She cooked well, and their home was always tidy. Arina felt her mother’s love especially when she braided her hair. Anna would stroke her daughter’s head, always with that sad gentleness. She lost her teeth early, but never replaced them. After school, Arina didn’t even consider going off to university—she didn’t want to leave her mum alone, knowing it would cost money. She got a job in the village shop nearby, helping support her mum as Tony grew up fast and needed new clothes and shoes. One day, a new customer came in—a man named Michael, from a neighbouring village eight miles away. He smiled and said, “What’s your name, beautiful? You’re new here, I haven’t seen you before when I’ve passed through.” “I’m Arina, and I haven’t seen you either.” He introduced himself, and soon started visiting often, picking Arina up after work for long walks or a spin in his car. Once, he even brought her to his own home. He lived with his mother, who was in poor health; his wife had left him and taken their daughter to town, not wanting to care for his mum. He had a big farm and a good house, and always treated Arina to delicious meals—cream, meat, sweets. She liked his home and soon, he asked her to marry him. “I’ll be honest—you’ll need to look after Mum, but I’ll help.” Arina agreed, happy inside, but didn’t show too much. Looking after his sick mother wouldn’t be a problem. Michael was nervous, but delighted when she accepted. After their wedding, Arina moved to Michael’s village. Tony was grown up, away learning to be a mechanic. Arina and Michael soon had two sons in quick succession. She was busy at home—after his mum died, the farm still needed constant work. Michael never let her do the heavy lifting, always saying, “You leave that to me—just milk the cows and feed the chickens; I’ll see to the pigs.” He was a loving husband and great with the children. Though Arina had never lived on a big farm before, she knew how to do everything, and Michael was generous, often saying, “Arina, let’s take some meat and cream and milk to your mum—she has to buy everything, while we’ve got it all fresh and homemade.” Anna would accept with thanks, but never smiled. Even when surrounded by her grandchildren, she remained solemn. Arina often wondered how to help bring her mother back to life. “Arina, maybe you should talk to Father Joseph at church, he might have some advice” Michael suggested, and Arina took the idea to heart. The priest promised to pray for Anna and told Arina to ask God to bring a good person into her mother’s life. One day, Anna asked her daughter, “Could you lend me some money? I want to get my teeth done.” Arina was overjoyed—anything to help her mum smile again. She gave her the money, though Anna insisted she’d repay it. They caught up by phone as Michael was busy helping his Uncle Colin, who’d just bought a nearby house and moved in after things didn’t work out with his wife. Uncle Colin invited Michael and Arina to visit—they were surprised to meet his new partner: Anna, Arina’s mum. Anna blushed but was smiling. She looked younger, happier, completely changed. “Mum! I’m so happy… why didn’t you say anything?” “I didn’t want to tell you in case it didn’t work out.” “Uncle Colin, why didn’t you tell us?” “I was afraid Anna might change her mind. But now we’re happy.” Michael and Arina were thrilled that Anna and Colin had found each other. Anna was transformed—beaming and always smiling now. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life.

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Mum, Please Smile Arina never liked it when the neighbours came round and asked her mum to sing. “Go on, Ann, sing us a song – you’ve such a beautiful voice, and you’re such a good dancer too!” her mum would start singing, the neighbours would join in, and sometimes everyone would be dancing together out in the yard. At the time, Arina lived with her parents and her younger brother Anthony (Antoshka) in their own home in a quiet English village. Her mother was cheerful and friendly, and when the neighbours said goodbye, she’d always say, “Come round again, we had such a lovely time,” and they promised they would. But Arina felt uncomfortable when her mother sang and danced – it embarrassed her, though she couldn’t quite say why, even to herself. She was in Year 6 then, and one day she blurted out: “Mum, please don’t sing or dance… I feel embarrassed.” She didn’t even really understand why. Even now, as an adult and a mum herself, she still couldn’t explain it. But Ann had only smiled and said, “Arina, you shouldn’t be embarrassed when I sing. Be happy! I won’t always be young enough to sing and dance like this…” At the time, Arina didn’t understand. She didn’t realise that not all of life would be full of laughter. The next year, when Arina was in Year 7 and her brother in Year 3, their dad left for good. He packed up and walked out with no explanation. Arina didn’t know why, and when she was a bit older she finally asked her mum, “Mum, why did Dad leave?” Ann could only reply, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” Ann just couldn’t bring herself to tell her daughter that she’d found her husband at home with another woman, Vera, who lived nearby. Arina and Anthony were at school when, running home to fetch her purse, Ann unexpectedly walked in on them. Her husband and Vera just looked at her, surprised and grinning, as if to say, “What are you doing here?” That evening, when her husband returned from work, there was a scene – the children were playing outside and heard nothing. “Pack your things, I’ve already put them in a bag, and go. I’ll never forgive you for betraying me,” Ann told him. Ivan tried to talk his way out, but she wouldn’t listen. He left, and Ann, watching from behind the corner of the house, swore she’d never forgive him. She told herself, “We’ll get by, just me and the children.” But she never smiled again. Raising two children alone was harder than she ever imagined. Ann worked two jobs: cleaning floors by day, baking bread at night. She hardly slept, and the smile faded from her face. Though the children still saw their father – after all, he and Vera lived just a few doors down – they always came home for meals, because Vera never welcomed or fed them. Still, sometimes Vera’s son, Anthony’s classmate, would come home with them, and Ann would feed all the children. She never held a grudge against her husband’s stepson. But Arina never saw her mother smile again. Ann was kind and caring, but so withdrawn. Sometimes Arina would come home from school desperate for her mum’s attention, telling her stories about her day: “Mum, you’ll never believe it! Genny brought a kitten to school and it meowed all through lessons!” But Ann would only reply, “Oh, I see…” Nothing seemed to lift her spirits, and at night Arina would hear her crying by the window, lost in thought. Only years later did Arina understand. “Mum must have been exhausted, working two jobs and never sleeping. And she must have been lacking in vitamins too. But she did everything she could for me and Anthony. We were always well dressed, our clothes ironed and clean.” The daughter would recall. Back then, little Arina just longed for one thing: “Mum, please smile. It’s been such a long time since I saw you happy…” Ann loved her children deeply, though sometimes she showed it in quiet ways – she rarely hugged them, but praised them for doing well at school and never causing trouble. She cooked wonderful meals, the house was always neat and tidy. Arina felt her mother’s love most when she braided her hair. Sitting in silence, Ann would gently stroke her daughter’s head, shoulders slumping with sadness. Her teeth fell out early, and she never had them replaced. After finishing school, Arina never considered going to university – she couldn’t leave her mum alone, knowing they had no money for studies. So she took a job at a nearby shop to help at home, especially as Anthony needed new clothes and shoes as he grew. One day, Mikhail came into the shop. He was from another village, nine years older, and quickly fell for Arina. “What’s your name, beautiful? Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before when I stopped by.” “I’m Arina – I haven’t seen you before, either.” “I’m Mikhail – from the next village over, about five miles away.” They started seeing each other; he picked her up after work, brought her home to meet his mum, and they soon talked about marriage. After all, he had a big house and needed help caring for his ailing mother. Arina agreed – it meant good food and a kind man – and so she said yes. After the wedding, Arina moved in with Mikhail. She felt ready for a new start. Anthony had grown up and was off at college, coming home for weekends and holidays. Time passed, and Arina truly found happiness with Mikhail. They raised two boys, one after the other, and she kept busy at home with the boys and the house (Mikhail’s mother passed away after two years). Mikhail worked hard and forbade her from lifting anything heavy – he took care of the heavy work himself, wanting only for her to take care of the animals and children. Every now and then, Mikhail would load up the car with meat, cream, and milk to bring to Arina’s mum, Ann, who still lived alone in their old village home. Ann accepted the gifts with gratitude, but never smiled. Even around her grandchildren, she remained solemn and thoughtful, and Arina’s heart ached for her mum, wishing she could bring her back to life. Once, prompted by Mikhail, Arina asked the vicar at the village church for help. “Pray to God,” he urged, “that your mum will meet someone kind.” And Arina prayed for just that. One day, Ann called needing to borrow money to fix her teeth. Overjoyed, Arina gave her the money gladly, but Ann insisted it was a loan and promised to repay her. Not long after, when Arina wasn’t able to visit for a while, Mikhail came home and said, “It looks like Uncle Nick wants to remarry! I overheard him on the phone – who do you think with?” Sure enough, soon Uncle Nick invited them both round. “I’ve found my first love – we went to school together. She’s moving in tomorrow – come for dinner the next day!” The next day, Arina and Mikhail arrived with gifts – and Arina nearly fainted with shock. Before her stood her mum, Ann, looking radiant, smiling at last. Ann blushed when she saw her daughter, but her smile never faded. “Mum! I’m so happy… but why didn’t you tell me?” “I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t work out.” “Uncle Nick, why didn’t you say anything?” “I was afraid Ann would change her mind. But now we’re both happy!” Arina and Mikhail were overjoyed to see Ann’s happiness. From that day on, Ann glowed with contentment – and smiled all the time. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and all your support. Wishing you happiness always.

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

I’m 45 and I No Longer Welcome Guests Into My Home Some people, when they visit, completely forget they’re guests. They’re rude, offer unsolicited advice, and overstay their welcome. I used to be incredibly hospitable, but my attitude changed quickly. Once I hit forty, I stopped inviting people over. Why should I bother? Dealing with inconsiderate guests is simply frustrating. This year, I celebrated my birthday in a restaurant, and I absolutely loved it—it’s what I’ll do from now on. Let me tell you why. Hosting a gathering at home is expensive. Even a simple dinner requires a substantial outlay. If you’re organising a festive celebration, the costs go up even more. Guests turn up with token gifts—times are tough, after all—and then linger well into the night. I want to relax, not spend hours washing up and cleaning afterwards. I no longer wait for anyone within my own four walls. I clean and cook on my own schedule. In the past, after hosting festive parties at home, I’d feel exhausted and deflated. Now, after the holidays, I can take a nice bath and get an early night. I have plenty of free time and use it wisely. My friends are welcome to pop in for a cuppa, but I never stress about not having treats to serve. These days, I speak my mind freely. If I want to rest, I’ll point guests towards the door. It might not seem very polite, but I don’t care. My comfort comes first. And here’s the funniest thing: the people who love showing up at others’ homes for a good time never seem to host themselves. It’s easier to enjoy yourself in someone else’s space without worrying about cleaning or cooking. Do you still host guests? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?