When I returned home, I found the door wide open. My first thought is that someone has broken in. “They probably hoped I’d have some money or valuables stashed away,” I think to myself.
My name is Margaret Taylor, and I’m sixty-two. For the past five years, Ive been on my own. My husband passed away, and my grown-up children have their own families and homes. While the weather holds fair, I live in a modest cottage just outside Oxford. When winter draws in, I move back to my two-bedroom flat in the city. But as soon as the first hint of spring is in the air, I head back to the countryside.
I find country life invigorating the fresh air does me good, and I love tending my little garden. Theres a small patch of woodland nearby, too, where you can pick blackberries and wild mushrooms in the summer.
It so happened that I needed to leave the village for a week on business. When I came back, I found my door unlocked. My first instinct is that someone’s been inside. “They must have thought there’d be a stash of cash or jewellery here,” I reason. But the house is untouched, nothing out of place. The only odd thing is a plate on the table; I never leave dishes out, especially knowing Id be away a while.
Thats when it hits me: someones been living here while I was gone. The thought makes me livid. As I walk into the sitting room, I spot a young boy fast asleep on my sofa. Suddenly, everything falls into place.
The boy stirs and looks at me, still bleary-eyed. He doesnt make a move to run, just sits up and says quietly, Sorry for letting myself in like this.
I can tell at once hes a polite and gentle child. My anger subsides, replaced by pity.
How long have you been staying here? I ask.
Two days, he answers, rubbing his eyes.
Arent you hungry? What have you been eating?
I had some sausage rolls left over. Theres a bit left, would you like some? he offers, holding out a carrier bag with a few stale pieces left.
Whats your name, dear?
Oliver, he replies.
Im Margaret Taylor. Where are your parents? Did you get lost?
My mums out a lot, he says after a pause. When she is home, shes always cross with me. She says Im nothing but trouble that without me her life would be perfect. Two days ago, she started shouting again. I couldnt take it anymore, so I ran away.
Do you think shes looking for you?
I doubt it. Its not the first time Ive left. Sometimes Im gone for days, and she never even seems to notice. Shes better off without me. When I come back, she hardly acknowledges me.
It turns out poor Oliver lives with his mother, who seems more interested in her own affairs than in raising her son. She often stays with friends or boyfriends, leaving Oliver to fend for himself.
My heart aches for him, but theres not much I can do. Im a pensioner; no council in their right mind will allow me to be his guardian, and Oliver refuses point-blank to go into care. I feed him and tell him he can stay another night. Hes safer here than he is at his own home.
I spend a sleepless night worrying for the boy. In the end, I recall an old friend who works in social services. The next morning, I give her a ring for advice.
Sarah Hope agrees to help, but we must be patient. After three weeks, the paperwork is sorted, and I am able to adopt Oliver. The boy is over the moon and so grateful. As for his mother, shes all too happy to sign away her parental rights once she finds out someone wants to look after him.
Now its the two of us, just Oliver and me. He tells everyone Im his grandmother, and I couldnt be more delighted it feels as though fate has gifted me a grandson.
Oliver is a bright child, quick to learn. This autumn, hes started in Year One. I love hearing his teachers praise hes already reading fluently and breezing through sums.
Im so glad Ive been given the chance to change a childs life and hes changed mine in return.
