“We don’t want to live here anymore, son. We’re going home. We’ve run out of strength,” his parents declared, turning their backs on city luxuries for the comfort of their countryside roots.
“Have your parents lost their minds, James?” Natalie, his wife, snapped, her voice thick with frustration. “Anyone else would kill for this! A four-bedroom flat, everything at their fingertips, meals ready—and still, nothing’s ever good enough for them!”
“Watch your tone, Natalie,” James replied sharply, his jaw tight.
“But it’s true!” she fired back. “They refuse to learn how to use the appliances, barely step outside, always sulking. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
James stayed silent. He didn’t have an answer. His parents *had* changed. Once lively, cheerful, full of energy—now they drifted through the flat like ghosts. He’d brought them to the city, pulled them from that remote village, given them every comfort money could buy. And what did he get in return? Empty stares and silence. Had he made a mistake?
The move had been delayed for years. James had pleaded, promised them the world. His parents never sold their cottage—not that they needed to, with their son’s wealth. But now, settled in London, it was as if their hearts had stayed behind, nestled under the old oak in their garden.
George and Agnes never adjusted. They missed the bustling village square, neighbours dropping by for tea, the vegetable patch, the scent of rain on soil. Here, it was all strangers, locked doors, roaring cars, endless rushing. Even the car James bought his father sat unused—too many signs, too many turns, too many unfamiliar roads.
“I wonder how the neighbours are,” Agnes sighed. “The tomatoes must be thriving with all this rain… And I never got to make the blackberry jam.”
“Stop it, love,” George whispered, wiping his eyes. “I dream of home every night. Everything’s familiar there. Here… here, we don’t belong.”
“We never meant to hurt you, son,” Agnes said softly. “We know you tried. But this… this isn’t us. We can’t stay.”
“When was the last time you even saw the village?” George muttered. “Just across the fields, yet you never find the time. And your Natalie rolls her eyes the moment I mention compost…”
James walked in then, arms full of shopping bags. One look at their faces, and he knew—it was time to talk plainly.
“Mum, Dad… what’s wrong?”
“Son,” George said quietly, “we’re leaving. Going back. We’ve no strength left for this place. It’s… too much. We don’t fit in. We’ve got our home, our garden, the old oak. Here, it’s nice, it’s comfortable… but it’s not *ours*.”
James said nothing. He studied them—their weary faces, hands that still ached for soil, for honest work. How could they walk away from everything he’d given them? Yet he wouldn’t argue.
“Alright. I’ll help you move next week. Your choice… I respect it.”
“Tomorrow?” Agnes asked hesitantly. “Could we… go tomorrow?”
James nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
He didn’t fully understand. *He* had suffocated in that village. Yet for them, it was where they breathed freely. Maybe home wasn’t brick walls and electric kettles. Maybe it was memories, scents, the quiet hum of birdsong.
That evening, George and Agnes came alive. Packing with grins, planning carrot rows, debating who to invite first. They stayed up all night, sipping tea, whispering like newlyweds.
And James finally understood—sometimes love wasn’t penthouses or smart TVs. Sometimes, it was letting them return to where their hearts lived. Because home isn’t an address. Home is where you’re loved… and missed.
