Homeless: Struggles and Stories from the Streets

Author Ilon MaksReading 9 min

28March

I have nowhere left to go. Literally, nowhere. I could spend a couple of nights on the platform at Kings Cross. And then? The thought that finally saved me was absurdly simple: the old cottage up in the Cotswolds. A cottage? Thats a generous term for the halfruined shack I own, I muttered to myself, but its still better than a cold bench at the station.

I boarded the commuter train, pressed my forehead against the frosty window and shut my eyes. Memories of the past two years crashed over me like a tide. When I was twentyfour my parents died in a car crash, leaving me alone with no support. I had no money for tuition, so I abandoned my degree and took a job selling produce at the local market.

After that bleak stretch, luck finally turned its face toward me. I met Mark Spencer, a kindhearted, decent bloke who seemed to understand me. Within two months we slipped into a modest wedding, a tiny celebration that felt like a miracle.

Life, however, never ceases to test you. Mark suggested we sell the flat we inherited in central London and use the proceeds to start a small business. He painted the picture so vividly that I didnt question a thing; I trusted him completely, convinced that soon we would be free of financial worries. Once were on solid ground we can think about a baby, I whispered to myself, yearning to become a mother as soon as possible.

The venture floundered. Arguments over the money wed already thrown away turned our relationship sour. One evening Mark came home with another woman, pointed at the door and told me I was no longer welcome.

My first instinct was to call the police, but I realised I had no legal ground. I had sold the flat myself and handed the cash to Mark, after all.

I stepped off at the station, the platform empty and silent, the early spring air still crisp. The cottage season was still months away; my plot had become overgrown and fell into disrepair. Ill tidy it up and restore it to how it used to be, I told myself, even though I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

I found the key tucked under the porch, but the wooden door had swollen and refused to budge. I strained at it, pushing and pulling, but the stubborn timber would not yield. Defeated, I sat on the steps and let the tears flow.

From the neighbouring field a thin wisp of smoke drifted up, followed by the soft sound of clattering. Relief surgedsomeone was there. I hurried over.

Mrs. Riley? Are you home? I called.

An elderly man emerged from the hedgerow, his face weathered but his voice surprisingly clear and baritone. He was warming water in a grimy tin mug over a modest fire.

Who are you? Wheres Mrs. Riley? I asked, stepping back.

Dont be frightened, he said calmly. And please, dont involve the police. Im not a troublemaker. I live right here in the yard.

He introduced himself as James Whitaker, a homeless man who had been living on the margins for years. I asked the inevitable, Are youhomeless?

Yes, he replied quietly, eyes averted. And you live next door?

I nodded, feeling a strange kinship. Whats your name, James?

James Whitaker, he said. My middle name is Edward.

I looked at him closely; his clothes were threadbare but clean, his beard trimmed. He seemed as neat as one could be in his circumstances.

I dont know who to turn to for help, I sighed.

Whats happened? he asked gently.

The doors swollen. I cant get it open.

If you like, I can have a look, he offered.

Id be grateful, I whispered, desperation in my voice.

While James fiddled with the stubborn door, I sat on the bench and reflected: What right do I have to judge him? I, too, am without a home. Our plights are mirrored.

Miss Poppy, you can stay the night, James said with a smile, pushing the door finally ajar. Do you intend to spend the night here?

Of coursewhere else? I laughed, surprised.

Is there heating? he asked.

I suppose the stove should be there, I replied, clueless.

Do you have firewood?

I dont know.

He shrugged. Go inside, Ill sort something out. He disappeared for a while and returned with a sack of logs. The cottage was damp, chilly, and far from cosy, but the fire he stoked soon filled the rooms with warmth.

The stoves lit now. Add a few sticks now and then, and at night you can let it die down. The heat should hold until morning, he explained.

Are you heading off to the neighbours? I asked.

Yes. Ill stay here a bit longer; I dont feel like going back into the city. Its easier not to disturb my thoughts by returning to the bustle.

James Whitaker, please wait. Lets have some tea and a simple supper first, I said firmly.

He obliged, shedding his coat and sitting beside the stove.

Im sorry to intrude on your thoughts, I began, but you dont look like a typical streetdweller. Why are you here? Where is your home, your family?

James told me he had spent his whole career as a university lecturer, devoting his youth to research. Age crept up on him unnoticed, and when he realised he was alone, it was too late to change course.

A year earlier his niece, Charlotte, had started visiting, subtly hinting that she would look after him if he left her his flat. He, hopeful, agreed. She persuaded him to sell the cramped London flat and purchase a decent house in a leafy suburb, promising a generous garden. She even opened a bank account for him, insisting he keep his money there.

When James went to the bank, Charlotte disappeared with the cash, leaving only a note that she had sold the property two years before. He sat on that bench, bewildered, for hours, waiting for her return that never came.

Its a bleak tale, he said, sighing heavily. Since then Ive been on the streets, unable to believe I have no home any longer.

I nodded. I thought I was alone, but my situation mirrors yours.

He tried to lift my spirits. Youve lived a lot already. You left university, lost your flat but dont lose hope. Every problem has a solution. Youre young; things will turn out fine.

Enough gloom, I said, smiling. Lets eat.

He devoured a plate of spaghetti and sausages with such gusto that my heart ached for him. It was clear he was lonely and scared.

The thought of being completely alone, out on the streets, makes my skin crawl, I thought.

Poppy, I can help you get back into university, James said suddenly. I still have contacts. I can write to the rector and arrange a meeting. My friend Constablewell, actually Constable is his surnamewill certainly support you.

Thank you. That would be wonderful, I replied, brightening at the prospect.

He stood to leave. Thank you for the dinner and for listening. Its getting late.

Where are you off to? I called after him.

Dont worry. I have a modest shelter on a neighbours plot. Ill check in on you tomorrow, he reassured, smiling.

I dont need to go out. I have three rooms here; you could use any you like. Im afraid of the stove, of being alone. Will you abandon me?

No, I wont, he promised solemnly.

Two years later I passed my semester exams with flying colours and, eager for the summer break, drove back to the cottage. It was still my weekend retreat; I lived in a student hall during term and visited the country house when I could.

Hello! I shouted, hugging James as I arrived.

Poppy! My dear! Why didnt you call? Id have met you at the station. How did it go? Pass? he asked, eyes twinkling.

Nearly everything was topnotch, I bragged. I even bought a cake. Put the kettle on, well celebrate!

We brewed tea and swapped news.

Ive planted grapes. Ill build a little summerhouse over there; itll be cosy, James said proudly.

Thats brilliant! Youre the master of this place now. I just pop in and out, I laughed.

James had transformed. He now had a warm home, a granddaughter who called him Granddad Jim, and a settled life. I felt gratitude swell inside me for the man who had stepped into my life when I was at my lowest, becoming the father figure I never had.

The Only Man in the House Over breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, glanced at her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” She turned the phone to show the string of numbers: 11.11.11 – November 11th, 2011. “It’s your lucky number, Dad – 11, and today there are three in a row. You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Val chucked. “That’s right, Dad,” Nadya chimed in, her eyes never leaving her screen. “Horoscopes say that Scorpios are due for a life-changing gift today!” “Brilliant. Probably some rich unknown relation in America or Europe just died and left everything to us… Millionaires, no—billionaires!” “Come on, Dad, you’d need to dream bigger!” Vera joked. “Imagine what we could do with all that money—buy a villa in the English countryside, or a place on the Cornish coast? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter!” Nadya squealed. “I want my own helicopter!” “Sorted. One helicopter for you. And for you, Vera?” “I want to act in a BBC drama with Benedict Cumberbatch!” “No problem, I’ll call someone at the Beeb, sort it out… All right, daydreamers, finish up—we need to head out.” “Aww, can’t we dream a bit longer?” Nadya sighed. “Dreams are important,” Val smiled, finishing his tea, “but don’t forget you’ve got school.” That morning chat popped into Val’s mind at the end of a very ordinary, not-so-lucky day. He was packing groceries into bags at Sainsbury’s, exhausted after staying late at work—no sign of good fortune, no life-changing meetings, let alone gifts. “Happiness just flew over, like a paper plane past the London Eye,” he snorted to himself as he left the shop. By his battered old Vauxhall, a scruffy boy loitered, shouting with everything about him that he was homeless: torn clothes, mismatched shoes—one worn-out boot, one odd sneaker with a frayed lace tied with blue electrical wire. On his head, a greasy winter hat, one earflap half-burned. “Mister, I… I’m hungry—could you spare some bread?” the boy asked in a stilted, rehearsed voice. It wasn’t the boy’s pitiful look, nor the Dickensian phrase, that struck Val—it was the way he said it. Val, who’d once trained with the local am-dram, recognised the telltale pause of an actor pretending. The boy was lying. All of it, a performance. Val nearly smiled. “All right, let’s play your game. My daughters love a detective story…” “Bread won’t fill you up. How about soup, then roasties with a bit of kipper, and pudding—apple crumble, perhaps?” The boy flinched, not expecting the offer, then returned to his part, eyes narrowing. Val dragged out the moment, fiddling with keys and the shopping, waiting to see if the lad would run—with real homeless kids, their exit instincts were strong. This one stayed, clutching the bag. “Right, into the car you get, dinner’s on.” Val’s home was a cottage just outside a quiet market town where he worked as a gas repair engineer—a single dad with no close family but heaps of love for his girls, and a special soft spot for kids in need, being an orphan himself. The girls dashed out to meet them, goggling at their father’s new companion. “Is this our life-changing gift?” Nadya asked, peering under the boy’s hat. “Dad, are you sure he’s our present and not someone else’s—a faulty one at that?” The siblings whisked the boy inside, falling immediately into a game of “good cop, bad cop.” In the kitchen, the mask finally cracked. The boy washed up, stripped of his disguise, revealed his name—Spartacus Bull—his ginger hair wild and clear blue eyes nervous yet honest. Over dinner, the tale spilled out. His father had died a hero’s death, his mother lost in heartbreak, and Spartacus and his little sisters had survived together thanks to his eldest sister, Sophie. Now Sophie, at 23, was smitten—with none other than Val. She was scared, worried her brood might put off any man. Spartacus, the “only man in the house,” had staged his orphan street act to see for himself if Val and his daughters would welcome his beloved sister. Would they love her—and her “bunch of kids”—as family? The family, in true English spirit, roared with laughter at the boy’s cheek—and, in the next moment, warmly welcomed both Spartacus and the prospect of a bigger, rowdier, perhaps even happier blended family. As Nadya declared, “See, Dad, you were granted the best gift after all—a big, brilliant, loving family—just like you always wanted.”

GRANDMA, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never remembered her parents. Her father left her mother when she was pregnant and vanished from their lives. Lena’s mother died of cancer when Lena was only one. It was her grandmother, Grandma Dorothy, who raised Lena, dedicating her life to her late daughter and granddaughter after losing her own husband young. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a deep spiritual bond; Dorothy always seemed to know exactly what Lena needed, and between them, there was always complete understanding. Everyone loved Grandma Dorothy—neighbors and schoolteachers alike. She’d often attend school meetings with a basket of freshly baked scones, insisting “it’s not right to sit hungry after work.” Dorothy never gossiped and was always sought out for advice. Lena always felt so lucky to have such a wonderful nana. Lena’s own personal life was always on fast-forward—school, university, work—always in a hurry. She’d dated, but never met the right man, much to Dorothy’s concern. “Why are you still single, darling? Surely there’s a good man out there for a smart and beautiful girl like you?” Lena would laugh it off, though in her heart she knew it was time to settle down—she was 30, after all. Dorothy passed away unexpectedly—she simply didn’t wake up, her heart stopping in her sleep. Lena was lost; going through the motions, but never really present. At home, only her cat, Whiskers, awaited her; she felt terribly alone. One day, Lena was reading on a train when a well-dressed man sat opposite her. He introduced himself as Alex and began talking about books—a subject Lena could discuss for hours. When he invited her to continue their conversation at a nearby café, Lena happily agreed. From that day, their whirlwind romance began. They called and texted daily, though Alex was often busy with work and avoided discussing his past or family life. That didn’t bother Lena—she was happy at last. One weekend, Alex invited Lena to dinner at a restaurant, hinting the evening would be special—it was clear he planned to propose. Lena was overjoyed. That night, as she browsed dresses online, she dozed off and dreamt of her grandmother. Dorothy, in her favorite dress, sat beside her and gently stroked Lena’s hair. “Gran, how are you here? You’re gone…” “I’m always with you, love. I see everything, hear everything—even if you can’t,” Dorothy softly replied. “Don’t see that man again. I’m warning you, he’s no good. Trust your gran.” And with that, Dorothy faded away. Lena woke up deeply unsettled. Why would her grandmother say Alex was bad? Though she tried to brush it off as just a dream, the worry lingered as the ‘big day’ approached. On the night of the proposal, Lena arrived in her old favorite dress, distracted by her grandmother’s words. Alex noticed immediately and tried to cheer her up with jokes, but by the time he knelt and offered her the engagement ring, Lena saw Dorothy standing at the restaurant window—a sign she couldn’t ignore. “Sorry, Alex—I can’t,” she blurted, trembling. “But—why? What did I do?” “It’s not you, I just have to trust my gran,” Lena replied, then rushed outside. Alex chased after her, livid, shaking her by the shoulders and yelling derisively as he stormed off. Shocked, Lena turned to her old friend Andrew, now a police detective, for help investigating Alex. Days later, Andrew called: “Lena, I’m afraid your Alex is a con artist. He targets women, marries them, cons them out of their homes and money, then leaves. You dodged a bullet.” How could Gran have known? Miracles do happen. Thank you, Grandma, for never letting me go and keeping me safe from harm. As Lena walked home with groceries and cat food, she knew she wasn’t truly alone—her grandmother was always close, watching out for her. Some say the spirits of loved ones become guardian angels, guiding us away from harm—I’d like to believe it’s true.

— I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors to the reception hall slowly opened, releasing a warm golden glow into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, quietly holding the hem, doing my best to hide the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was exactly as Artem and I had dreamed. Almost. As I steadied my breathing before our entrance, squealing brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors, I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door flew open, and out tumbled a noisy crowd: Aunt Sally, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already dashing circles around the car. A chill ran down my spine. “Not this…” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “They came after all?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with kids.” We stood in the doorway, ready to join our guests, when instead we froze—like two actors on opening night who’d just forgotten their lines. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold it together now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, you need to go back a few weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing for sure: it would be a small, intimate, cosy celebration. Just 40 guests, live jazz, warm lighting, and a relaxed mood. And—no children. Not because we dislike kids. We just wanted a peaceful evening without little feet thundering about, shrieks, trampoline mishaps, spilled juice, and other people’s parenting dramas. All our friends understood. My parents were fine with it. Artem’s parents were a little surprised at first, but quickly accepted it. The extended family, however… First to call was Aunt Sally—a woman whose voice volume seems coded in her DNA. “Ina!” she began, skipping any greeting. “What’s this I hear about no kids at your wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Sally,” I calmly replied. “We want a quiet evening, so the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” she exploded, as if I’d suggested banning babies nationwide. “Don’t you know we’re a close family? We always do everything together!” “This is our day. We’re not making anyone come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Well, fine then. We won’t come,” she snapped, and hung up. I stared at my phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button that triggers a disaster. Three days later, Artem came home with a troubled look. “Ina… We need to talk,” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three children aren’t some sort of delinquents, but real people. And if they’re not invited, neither she, her husband, nor his parents will come.” “So, minus five people?” “Eight,” he corrected, sitting down wearily. “They think we’re breaking tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with a tinge of desperation. “Tradition? You mean the one where kids knock over trays of food at weddings?” Artem cracked a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re already fuming.” But the campaign didn’t end there. A week later, we went to a family dinner at his parents’ house. And that’s where a surprise awaited me. His grandmother—gentle, quiet Mrs. Parker, who usually prays not to get involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she gently scolded. “A wedding without them feels… empty.” I was about to respond, but Artem’s mother jumped in. “Oh, Mum, that’s enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings are chaos. You’ve always complained about the noise. Remember how many times we had to catch little ones under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “And family should respect the couple’s wishes,” his mum calmly replied. I wanted to stand and applaud. But Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the conflict had turned into a full-blown family saga—Game of Thrones-level drama. And we were the crowned couple they were all trying to overthrow. The knockout punch came soon after. Another call. It’s Uncle Michael—generally the calmest, most laid-back, “this doesn’t concern me” type. “Ina, hello,” he began gently. “There’s just… we thought—my wife and I—why no kids? They’re part of the family. We always bring them to weddings.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a quiet evening. No one’s banned from coming…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But look, my wife says if our kids aren’t allowed, neither is she. And I’ll be with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more gone. By now, our guest list was thinner than a Vogue model. Artem sat next to me and hugged my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he whispered. “Otherwise, it’s not really our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Gran would hint that “it’ll feel dead without children’s laughter.” Katya would post a dramatic message in the family group chat: “So sad that some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And finally—the wedding day. That minivan pulled up to the steps. The children leapt out first, stamping across the cobblestones like they’d rehearsed a parade. Aunt Sally followed, adjusting her hair. “I’m going to lose it…” I muttered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.” We stepped forward. Aunt Sally was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Well, hello, newlyweds!” she announced, arms outstretched. “Sorry we’re late. But we had to come. We’re family! We just couldn’t leave the kids. But they’ll keep quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem murmured, watching the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Sally… We agreed,” I said calmly and clearly. “There would be no children. You knew that.” “But weddings are…” she started. Then Gran spoke up. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But children are family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Mrs. Parker,” I replied gently, “we really value you being here. Honestly. But this is our choice. If that’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I never finished. “Mum!” Artem’s mother suddenly called, coming out of the hall. “Stop spoiling their day. Adults celebrate—children stay home. That’s it. Let’s go.” Gran faltered. Sally froze. Even the children fell quiet—picking up on the mood shift. Sally sniffed. “Well… alright. We didn’t want to fight. Just thought it was best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I told her. “But the children do need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silence—then they quietly walked the kids back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home, leaving the adults. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect—candlelight, jazz, a gentle buzz of conversation. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen cleared the way, a waiter handed us champagne. And I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artem bent down to me. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. We danced our first dance with no children weaving between our feet. No one shouted, no desserts crashed to the floor, no cartoons blared on phones. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours later, Gran approached us. “Ina, Artem…” she said gently. “I was wrong. Tonight has been… lovely. Really lovely. Without all the commotion.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.” “It’s just…” she sighed. “Old folks cling to old ways. But I see now—you knew best.” Those words meant more than any toast that night. At the very end of the celebration, Aunt Sally came over, clutching her glass like a shield. “Ina…” she lowered her voice. “I was too harsh. Sorry. It’s just, we’ve always done things as a family. But tonight… it’s beautiful. So peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thank you for coming,” I replied honestly. “We so rarely get time as adults. Tonight… I finally felt like a person again,” she confessed. “Almost makes me wish I’d thought of it sooner.” We hugged. Weeks of tension finally melted away. When the evening ended, Artem and I stepped outside under the soft glow of the streetlights. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. Traditions, too. But having your boundaries respected matters just as much. And when a bride and groom say “no children,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turns out, even the oldest family habits can change—if you make it clear your decision is final. This wedding taught everyone a lesson—especially us: sometimes, to save the day, you have to be able to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes a truly happy celebration.