When I Returned Home and Found My Door Wide Open, I Feared an Intruder—But Instead, I Discovered a Lonely Boy Who Changed My Life Forever: How I Became a Grandmother at Sixty-Two and Gave a Lost Child a Loving Family

Author Emily TaylorReading 5 min

When I returned, the door was wide open. My first thought was that someone had broken in. They probably hoped I had some cash or jewellery tucked away, I mused.

My name is Margaret Dawson and Im sixty-two years old. Ive been on my own for five years now. My husband passed away, and my grown-up children have families of their own and live elsewhere. I spend the warmer months in my small cottage out in the countryside, and when winter arrives, I move back into my two-bedroom flat in town. As soon as the chill leaves the air, I head back to the cottage.

Ive always loved rural life. The fresh air invigorates me, and tending to my little garden brings me joy. Theres a small wood nearby too, where you can find wild berries and mushrooms in summer.

It happened that I had to leave the village for a whole week to sort out some personal matters. When I returned, the door was open. Straight away, I thought someone must have been inside. They probably assumed I kept money or valuables here, I thought. Yet nothing seemed disturbed and there were no signs of a break-in. Everything was where I had left it. Only a single plate was sitting on the table, and I never leave dishes out, especially if Im going to be gone for a while.

Thats when it hit me: someone had been living here in my absence. I was both startled and angry. As I entered the sitting room, I found a young boy fast asleep on my settee. Suddenly, it all made sense.

He woke up and looked at me with sleepy eyes. He didnt even try to run, just sat up and said shyly,

Im sorry for coming in uninvited.

I noticed at once that he was a polite and modest child, and my annoyance softened.

How long have you been staying in my house? I asked.

Two days, he replied.

Arent you hungry? What have you been eating?

I had some pasties left over. Theres still a bit left, if youd like?

He handed me a bag with the remnants of his pasties, sadly rather stale by now.

Whats your name? I asked.

Oliver, he replied.

Im Margaret Dawson. Why are you here by yourself? Are you lost? Where are your parents?

My mum leaves me on my own a lot. When she comes back, shes always cross, and takes it out on me. She kept saying I was just a problem in her life, and that shed have been happy if it werent for me. Two days ago, she shouted at me again. I couldnt take it anymore, so I ran away.

Maybe shes looking for you now?

No, I really dont think so. Its not the first time Ive gone away. Sometimes Id be gone for days, even weeks, and shed barely notice. She always seemed happier without me. And when I came back, I never saw her particularly pleased.

It turned out that Olivers mother cared more for chasing after boyfriends than looking after her son. Shed often stay over at friends houses, leaving him to fend for himself.

I felt desperately sorry for the boy, though there wasnt a great deal I could do. I was already retired, and no social service would let me become his guardian so easily. Oliver was adamant he didnt want to go into care. I fed him a proper meal and let him stay the night. Here, at least, he was safer than with his mother.

That night, I hardly slept, worrying about what would become of him. Then I remembered a good friend of mine, Janet Clifford, who worked for the local authority in child welfare. The next morning, I rang her straight away to ask her advice.

Janet agreed to help, and after a bit of time and paperwork, three weeks later I was able to adopt Oliver. The boy was overjoyed and grateful. His mother had no objection to signing away her parental rights when she heard that someone wanted to care for her son.

Now there are just the two of us at the cottage. Oliver tells everyone Im his gran, and I feel blessed that life has given me a grandchild after all.

Hes a bright, talented boy. This autumn, he started his first year at school. It warms my heart to hear such good things from his teacherOliver learned to read in no time and is already handy with sums.

Sometimes life leads you to unexpected doorsand sometimes, when you open them, you discover a new reason for happiness. Helping someone in need may be the start of a lifelong bond, both for them and for you.

The Further Away, the Dearer the Heart… “You know what, my dearest grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one choice left. I won’t go live with my daughters anymore, nor will I traipse about from friend to friend. And I certainly don’t need you matchmaking me for some old gentleman—imagine, marrying me off in my golden years! —Gran, it’s what I’ve been telling you for ages! Mum says the same—just move into the retirement home. All you have to do is sign the house over to me, and you’ll get a cozy room, Mum will sort it out. There’ll be people to chat with, neighbours close by, and you won’t be in my way anymore. —I’m not leaving my house for anyone, Sasha. If I’m in your way, there’s the door and seven roads—take your pick. You’re young, clever, find a flat and live as you please. If you won’t study, go get a job. Parade a different girl home every day if you want. I’m a woman of nearly 65; I need peace and quiet. I’ve wandered enough these past couple of years. Time to come home. It just isn’t right, my boy—when you drive me out of my own house and live off my pension with your girlfriends. My pension isn’t endless. So you’ve one week. If you can’t find a place, go to your friends or that girlfriend—her name I keep forgetting—but I want you out of my home by tonight. First you try to foist a husband on me, then pack me off to a care home—ridiculous!” Her indignant grandson tried to argue, but Lydia Pavlovna was done listening. She walked silently to her room and closed the door, her head pounding. She ought to take a pill, but it would mean braving the kitchen and a run-in with her grandson, which she’d rather avoid. Glancing around her small room, Lida spotted a bottle of sparkling water—just enough for a sip. *** Lida never thought she’d stand up for herself with such resolve. Years of biting her tongue had caught up with her. For two long years, she’d endured in silence, running to one daughter or the other whenever summoned—and just as quickly heading home at their first hint of overstaying her welcome. Now, her twenty-year-old grandson was master of her own home—different ‘true loves’ trailing behind him every week as if Gran’s mere presence and sniffles behind the wall were ruining his romantic atmosphere. —Gran, why not go stay with someone, let us have the house to ourselves—Dasha, Masha, Sveta, Ira (circle as appropriate, they change often) would appreciate it! So Lydia Pavlovna stayed with her cousin, her old workmate, her friend’s wife – initially welcomed, but eventually she realised her visits were a strain. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a baby. City life, a mortgage, a school-age child—the family needed Gran more than ever. At first, everyone was happy: dinners hot, house tidy, children cared for. But after a few months, her son-in-law—barely a decade younger than Lydia—grew snippy. “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages—they’re poison! If you’re at home all day, can’t you make proper meals—homemade burgers, a proper roast…?” “Lydia, why are you spending so much on groceries and toiletries? You need to economise!” “Lydia! Do I look like a cow, gnawing on vegetables? We need more meat, but do keep an eye on the budget.” “You’re home anyway—can’t you help the eldest with her studies? Why are we paying for tutors with a perfectly good grandmother in residence?” Even her eldest granddaughter, just a bold nine-year-old, found fault—Gran’s clothes were embarrassing, she made her study, ‘Gran, why are you even here? Off to your country house, go play boss there!’ Lida endured it all. Her meagre pension bought meat for her son-in-law, pocket money for the embarrassed granddaughter, and even topped up the grandson’s bills—just to keep the house running. Complaining was pointless; her daughter worshipped her husband, never a word against him. When the youngest granddaughter started nursery, Lydia’s job was done. Her son-in-law said it plainly: “Thank you, Lydia, but we don’t need you now, time to go home.” Lydia’s heart sang with relief—finally she’d have her own space again. But her grandson had moved back in, with a girlfriend in tow. The place was a dump; bills unpaid, even the electric at risk. With no other option, Lydia took out a personal loan, settled the debts, scrubbed the house clean. Still, her grandson complained—no privacy with Gran coughing behind thin walls. And then, providence: her youngest daughter needed help with a newborn. Off she went again—only to realise after three months that she was, once again, surplus to requirements. Lydia fled before she could be asked to leave, returning to yet another frown from her grandson. Lydia might have carried on like this forever had it not been for one incident after returning home… House clean (she always paid her own way), debts gone, but again: “Gran, I’m going to Karen’s today—it’s her birthday, I’ll be back late. Lock up after yourselves, I’ll use the back door so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay the night then? Give us a break!” “Where would you two get tired of me in seven days?” “You won’t stay?” “No, I’ll come home.” The party was joyful—first the café, then just the close friends at Karen’s place, reminiscing about youth, steering clear of complaints. Lida was just about to head home when Karen’s phone rang—it was Lida’s daughter, Nastya. “Is everything all right? Why didn’t she call me?” Karen answered quietly: “She just asked to keep you here for the night. Sasha rang his mum—wants you to give them space. She called me—said if you won’t go to a care home, perhaps we can find you an old gent with a flat, so Sasha can get married without Gran breathing down his neck.” Lida poured out everything—to Karen and later, to her grandson and daughter: all the years of juggling, of being unwelcome in her own home. Sasha left, vowing never to return or help. At last, Lida was alone—and relished it: after a lifetime of accommodating everyone else, she could finally breathe. Her daughters called, hoping for babysitting—she said, “Bring the children to me. The air is better here, and in my own home I’m the boss. No more running around for everyone else.” Lida says: the further away, the dearer they become. And I think she’s right.

010