“Mother needs a rest”—he repeated these words every day from the moment our son was born… until the very end.
Each evening, returning from work, the first thing he did was wash his hands and go straight to our son. Neither the TV nor his favourite newspaper could distract him. He would lean over the crib, lift the baby into his arms—and in that instant, I fell in love with him all over again. With a man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. With a husband who remembered me.
“Mother needs a rest,” he’d say with a smile, gently rocking little Oliver in his arms, humming a lullaby until he drifted off.
“Mother needs a rest,” he whispered in the dead of night, rising first to change the nappy, then passing our son to me quietly, waiting while I fed him before carefully settling him back into his cot.
“Mother needs a rest,” he declared every evening, tying on an apron, coaxing our stubborn, fussy toddler to eat spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, turning every meal into an adventure.
“Mother needs a rest,” he repeated as he bundled one-year-old Oliver into his pram for a walk, giving me time to shower or simply sit in silence—even if only for half an hour.
“Mother needs a rest,” he murmured, lifting an older Oliver onto his lap, spinning impromptu bedtime tales just to keep him entertained and grant me a moment of peace.
“Mother needs a rest,” he said patiently while helping with schoolwork, guiding Oliver through maths problems that seemed impossible to grasp.
“Mother needs a rest,” he whispered the night Oliver came home late from his prom, slipping silently into the kitchen.
Every time I heard those words, warmth flooded my chest. My heart would squeeze, eyes brimming—not from sadness, but from quiet joy. I wanted to freeze time, to live forever in that love.
Then came the third chapter of love—when the word “mother” on his lips became “grandmother.”
“Grandmother needs a rest!” He chuckled when our grandson, staying for the weekend, grew fussy and asked for his parents. And once again, he hummed the same lullaby—now to another child.
“Grandmother needs a rest,” he’d wink, packing fishing gear to take our grandson and grown-up Oliver across the fields to the pond.
“Grandmother needs a rest,” he’d say softly, handing our grandson headphones to lower the tablet’s blaring cartoons.
He never got to meet our granddaughter. He left too soon, too quietly. The children moved me in with them—though I still miss our old house, now too empty without him.
The first time I held tiny Emily, I couldn’t stop the tears. I almost heard his voice, as if he stood behind me, whispering:
“Grandmother needs a rest…”
I even turned. Foolish hope—but what if?
Later, as evening settled and I drifted to sleep, a faint murmur came from the living room. The voice of my grown son, Oliver:
“Sleep, my love. Mother needs a rest…”
I rose, cracked the door open, and saw him rocking his daughter, singing the same lullaby—the one his father once sang to him.
He’s gone now. But those words—”mother needs a rest”—live on. In our son. In his children. In memories that even time cannot fade.
Love, once given, never truly leaves. It simply changes hands.
