After his wife’s passing, William Thompson felt as though his home had emptied forever. His daughter, Evelyn, lived with her family in another town and visited seldom. Evenings found the pensioner sitting in silence, staring at old photographs of a happier life. When Evelyn rang one day and spoke not only of his health but his loneliness, he presumed she might visit at last. Instead, she proposed renting out the spare room—some lad named Thomas, her friend’s brother, left homeless after a divorce.
So Thomas moved in. At first, he seemed quiet and polite, paying rent promptly, eating little, even sharing the odd meal. Some nights they’d watch telly together, chatting amiably. But then things changed.
One evening, Thomas brought home two drunken mates. They laughed, smoked, and carried on till dawn. When it happened again, William objected, only to hear, “I pay rent. Nothing in the agreement says I can’t have guests.” Then came Thomas’s girl, Lucy—first visiting, then staying over. Soon, Thomas hinted he’d prefer the larger room. Reluctantly, William relented.
One morning, as Lucy fried eggs and invited him to eat, Thomas spoke kindly. “We’d like to stay on. The commute’s easy, and you’re decent company. No more rowdy nights, promise.” Lucy added, “Ever fancied village life? My aunt owns a cottage in Greenfield—rent-free, just keep it tidy.” William bristled at first, but later agreed. “Better the countryside than this boarding house.”
The place was old but snug. He tidied up and mended the hearth with help from George, a cheerful neighbour who showed him the ropes and invited him fishing. Come spring, Beatrice—the cottage owner—arrived with groceries. Over fish stew and George’s company, a rhythm began. Every weekend, Beatrice visited. Then, everything shifted.
Returning with her to the city to sort the tenancy, they found Lucy answering the door—her belly round. “Thomas and I wed,” she said. Beatrice exchanged a glance with William and replied, “Move into my flat. We’ll take the house.”
Thomas gaped. William added, “We’re getting married too. We’ve a right to warmth as well.”
A son was born. Beatrice retired, doting on the boy while she and William split time between town and country. They restored the cottage, awaiting grandchildren. George built a cradle. What began as chance lodgings became family. Life twists strangely—best not to lock the heart against it.
