“We don’t want to live here anymore, son. We’re going home. We just can’t bear it,” his parents said, turning away from city comforts for the sake of their beloved countryside.
“Have your parents lost their minds, James? Most people would kill for this life!” Natalie, his wife, snapped at him. “A four-bedroom flat, meals on demand, everything at their fingertips—and still, nothing’s ever good enough for them!”
“Watch your tone, Natalie,” James replied sharply.
“But it’s true! They won’t learn how to use the appliances, they barely step outside, and they’re always miserable. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
James stayed silent. He didn’t understand it either. His parents had changed. Once lively, cheerful people, they now drifted through the flat like ghosts. He’d brought them to the city, pulled them from their tiny village, given them every luxury—and what did he get? Empty stares and silence. Had he made a mistake?
The move had been delayed for years. James had pleaded, promised they’d want for nothing. His parents never sold their cottage—not that they needed to, with his money. Finally, they came, but their hearts never left that little house beneath the old oak trees.
William and Agnes never adjusted. They missed the bustling village square, neighbors dropping by for tea, their vegetable patch, the scent of rain on fresh soil. Here, everything felt alien—strangers, locked doors, speeding cars, endless noise. Even the car James had bought his father sat unused—too many signs, too many turns, too many unfamiliar roads.
“I wonder how the neighbors are doing,” Agnes sighed. “The cucumbers must be ripe this year, with all this rain… And I never got to make the blackberry jam.”
“Don’t, love, it breaks my heart,” William murmured, wiping his eyes. “I dream of home every night. Everything there’s ours. Here… here we don’t belong.”
“We didn’t mean to upset you, son. We know you tried,” William said softly. “But this isn’t for us. We can’t stay.”
“When did you last even see the village?” William asked. “It’s just down the road, but you never have the time. And Natalie—she rolls her eyes every time I mention the compost heap.”
Just then, James walked in, arms full of shopping bags. He took one look at their faces and knew—it was time to talk.
“Mum, Dad… what’s wrong?”
“Son… we’re leaving,” William said quietly. “Going home. We can’t live like this anymore. It’s too much. We don’t belong here. Back home, we’ve got our cottage, our land, the oak in the garden. This place is grand, comfortable… but it’s not us.”
James said nothing. He studied their weary faces, their work-worn hands—hands used to soil and honest labor. He couldn’t fathom how they’d walk away from everything he’d given them. But he stayed his tongue.
“Alright. I’ll help you move next week. Your choice—I respect it.”
“What about tomorrow?” Agnes asked hopefully. “Could you find the time tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, then,” James nodded.
He’d never fully understand. To him, the village had been suffocating. Yet for them, it was the only place they could breathe. Maybe home wasn’t about bricks and comforts, but memories—the smell of earth, the quiet, the song of thrushes at dawn.
That evening, William and Agnes came alive again. Packing with smiles, they chattered about planting carrots, about which old friend to invite first. They sipped tea and whispered like sweethearts, late into the night.
And then James understood—sometimes love isn’t about flats and gadgets. Sometimes, it’s just letting your parents go where their hearts are. Because home isn’t an address. Home is where you’re loved.
