Paul Andrews never imagined his golden years would be spent behind the locked doors of a care home, under the watch of nurses, surrounded by others abandoned by their own families. He’d always believed he deserved better—respect, warmth, peace. After all, he’d worked his whole life, provided for his family, built a home around his one true joy: his late wife, Lucy, and their daughter, Margaret.
He and Lucy had shared over thirty happy years together. After she passed four years ago, the house felt empty, freezing. His only comfort was Margaret and his little granddaughter, Sophie. He helped however he could—babysat, gave his pension for groceries, looked after Sophie while his daughter and her husband went to work or the cinema. Then, suddenly, everything changed.
Margaret started giving him sideways glances when he lingered in the kitchen. His cough began to irritate her. *”Dad, you’ve had your turn—let the rest of us live!”* became a regular refrain. Then came the talk of *”a lovely care home,”* *”a cosy place with doctors and a telly.”* Paul tried to resist.
*”Maggie, this is my house. If you’re cramped, move in with your mother-in-law—she’s got a three-bed all to herself.”*
*”You know we don’t get on. And don’t you start!”* she snapped.
*”You just want the house. Why don’t you earn your own instead of pushing me out?”*
After that, she called him *”selfish,”* threatened to *”find a way.”* A week later, he packed his things—not because he wanted to, but because staying felt unbearable. He left without a word. Margaret practically beamed, nearly carrying him out herself.
The care home gave him a small room with a window and an old telly. Paul spent his days in the garden, under the open sky, among others just as discarded as he was.
*”Kids send you here?”* an old woman once asked on the bench beside him.
*”Yeah. My daughter decided I was in the way,”* he replied, fighting tears.
*”Same here. My son picked his wife over me. Booted me out. I’m Faith.”*
*”Paul. Nice to meet you.”*
They became friends. The pain was easier to bear with someone who understood. A year passed. Not one call, visit, or letter from Margaret.
One day, as Paul sat reading, he heard a familiar voice.
*”Paul Andrews? Didn’t expect to see you here,”* said Anna, his old neighbour—now a doctor checking on residents.
*”Yeah. Been here a year. Unwanted. Not a word from her.”*
*”That’s odd… Margaret said you’d moved to a cottage in the countryside, retired somewhere peaceful.”*
*”Wish I had. Instead, I’m rotting behind this fence.”*
Anna shook her head but couldn’t shake the conversation. Two weeks later, she returned with an offer:
*”Paul, my mum’s cottage is sitting empty. She passed recently, everything’s sold. It’s warm, solid—woods and a river nearby. You’re welcome to live there. I’ve no plans to visit, and selling it feels wrong.”*
Paul wept. A stranger was offering what his own daughter had shrugged off.
*”One more thing… There’s a woman here. Faith. She’s got no one either. Could she come with me?”*
*”Of course,”* Anna smiled. *”If she’s willing.”*
Paul rushed to Faith. *”Pack your bags! We’re leaving! Cottage in the country, fresh air, freedom. We’ll be happy there. Why stay in this place?”*
*”Let’s go! A fresh start!”*
They packed, bought groceries, and Anna drove them herself. Paul hugged her, lost for words. *”Just… don’t tell Margaret. I don’t want to hear her name again.”*
Anna nodded. She hadn’t done anything grand—just acted like a decent human. These days, that’s something rare.
