**Diary Entry**
It was bucketing down outside, and Eleanor stood by the window of her cramped little terrace, rain lashing against the glass. Life as a single mum to four had never been easy, but now it felt downright hopeless. Bills cluttered the kitchen table, and tonight’s dinner would be whatever she could scrape together—again.
Just as she turned away, something caught her eye.
A man—an old chap, drenched and hunched, shuffling along the pavement without a brolly. He looked lost, like the world had forgotten him.
Without a second thought, Eleanor snatched their lone umbrella, slipped on her wellies, and hurried outside. “Sir, are you all right?” she asked softly.
He blinked up at her. “Oh, I’m just passing through. I’ll be off now.”
But she shook her head. “You’ll catch your death out here. Come inside—it’s not much, but you’re welcome.”
After a pause, he nodded.
Inside, her four children gawked at the stranger. Eleanor handed him a tea towel and brewed a cuppa. The old man, whose name was Mr. Albert Whitaker, was quiet, kind, and carried a sadness that didn’t need words.
That evening, he sat with the kids, spinning tales of his childhood—climbing the old oak in his village, building a shed with his own hands. The children laughed, and for the first time in ages, the house felt alive with warmth.
The next morning, Albert stood by the window, sipping his tea.
“You know,” he said, “this place reminds me of the cottage I built years ago. Small, but full of life. Full of love.”
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. Eleanor opened it—and her hands trembled.
A deed. To a farmhouse in the Cotswolds. Fully paid. Hers, if she wanted it.
“I meant to sell it,” Albert admitted. “But last night… you showed me what a home should feel like. You took me in when no one else would. That sort of kindness deserves more.”
Eleanor pressed a hand to her mouth. “I can’t accept this.”
“You must,” he said with a grin. “On one condition.”
She stared.
“Sell me this place for a quid,” he said. “So I’ve always got somewhere to come back to when I miss the laughter.”
And she did.
That week, Eleanor and the kids moved into the farmhouse—apple trees in the garden, a red brick barn, space to breathe. The children raced through the fields, shouting with glee. They had a proper home at last.
Albert moved into the terrace he’d “bought” for a pound, visiting every Sunday. The kids called him “Grandpa Bert.” He whittled them toys, taught them to grow runner beans, and read them stories beneath the stars.
And whenever anyone asked why he’d given it all away, he’d just smile and say:
“When someone offers you love for nothing, it’s only right to give it back tenfold.”
