**Diary Entry:**
The rain hammered against the window of my cramped, tired cottage, blending with the lump in my throat. Raising four children alone was never simple, but lately, it felt unbearable. Bills towered on the counter, and supper would be whatever odds and ends I could scrape together.
Then I saw him—an elderly man, drenched through, standing at the kerb with a slow, uneven gait. No coat, no umbrella. Just lost.
I snatched my only umbrella, shoved on my wellies, and hurried into the downpour. “Sir? Are you all right?” I asked softly.
He blinked up, startled. “I’m just passing through. I’ll be off soon.”
But I shook my head. “You’ll catch your death out here. Come inside—it’s not much, but you’re welcome.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
Inside, the children peeked at the stranger as I handed him a towel and a mug of steaming tea. His name was Mr. Albert Whitmore—quiet, polite, with a sorrow too deep for words.
That evening, he told the children tales of his youth—climbing ancient oaks, building a cottage with his own hands. Their laughter filled the room, and for the first time in ages, the walls felt warm.
Next morning, Albert stood by the kitchen window, cradling his tea.
“This place,” he mused, “reminds me of the cottage I built decades ago. Small, but brimming with life. Love in every nook.”
I gave a faint smile. “It’s humble, but it’s home.”
He turned, his gaze solemn. “Which is why I’d like you to have this.”
From his pocket, he drew a folded envelope. Inside—a deed. To a farmhouse and land in the Cotswolds. Fully paid. Worth half a million pounds. Mine, if I wished.
“I nearly sold it,” he admitted. “But last night… you showed me what home truly is. You took me in when others wouldn’t. That sort of kindness deserves every blessing.”
Tears welled. “I can’t possibly accept.”
“You must,” he insisted. “On one condition.”
I held my breath.
“Sell me this cottage for £1,” he said. “So I’ll always have a place to return to when I miss the sound of joy.”
And so I did.
Within days, we moved into the sprawling farmhouse—rolling fields, an old stone barn, apple trees heavy with fruit. The children raced through the meadows, breathless with delight. Space. Safety. A fresh start.
Albert settled into the cottage he’d “bought” for a quid, visiting every weekend. The children called him “Grandpa Bert.” He whittled wooden toys, taught them to tend raspberry bushes, and read to them under the stars.
When folks asked why he’d given it all away, he’d simply smile and say:
“Because when someone offers you love without price, you return it a hundredfold.” ♡
