“We don’t want to live here, son. We’re going home. We just can’t take it anymore,” Mum said softly as she packed her old teapot into a box.
“Your parents have gone mad, Oliver! Who wouldn’t want this?” huffed Emily, his wife, arms crossed. “A four-bedroom house in London, everything at their fingertips, meals delivered—yet they’re still unhappy!”
“Mind your words, Em,” grumbled Oliver, rubbing his temples.
“It’s true, though! They refuse to learn how to use the telly, never leave the house, always complaining. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
Oliver stayed quiet. He didn’t know what to say. His parents *had* changed. Once lively, smiling, full of stories—now they wandered their London home like ghosts. He’d brought them here from their tiny Yorkshire village, given them the best of everything. And what did he get in return? Silent sadness. Had he made a mistake?
The move had taken years of convincing. Oliver had promised them the world. They’d kept their cottage—there was no need to sell it, not with his salary. But now, though their bodies were here, their hearts remained under the old oak tree back home.
Thomas and Margaret never adjusted. They missed their bustling village square, neighbours popping in for tea, the garden smelling of rain-soaked earth. Here, it was all strangers, locked doors, honking cars, never-ending noise. Even the car Oliver had bought his dad sat unused—too many lanes, too many signs, too much *speed*.
“D’you think Mrs. Wilkins’ roses bloomed this year?” Margaret murmured one evening. “All that rain… And I never got to make my plum jam.”
“Don’t,” Thomas whispered, wiping his eyes. “I dream of that cottage every night. Everything there’s *ours*. Here… here we don’t belong.”
“We don’t mean to hurt you, love,” Margaret said later, patting Oliver’s hand. “We know you tried. But this isn’t home.”
“When did you last visit the village?” Thomas added. “It’s a train ride away, yet you never have time. And Emily rolls her eyes whenever I mention my tomatoes—”
Just then, Oliver walked in, arms full of shopping bags. One look at their faces, and he knew.
“Mum. Dad. What’s wrong?”
“Son… we’re leaving,” Thomas said quietly. “Going back. We can’t do this anymore. It’s not us. We’ve got our cottage, the garden, the old oak. This place is grand, but… it’s not *ours*.”
Oliver stared. How could they walk away from everything he’d given them? But he didn’t argue.
“Alright. I’ll help you move next week. Your choice—I respect it.”
“Tomorrow?” Margaret asked hopefully. “If you’re free?”
Oliver nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
He didn’t fully understand. He’d suffocated in that village. Yet they thrived there. Maybe home wasn’t about bricks and comfort, but memories—the smell of fresh bread, the sound of church bells, the quiet of the countryside.
That night, Thomas and Margaret came alive again. Packing with smiles, planning their vegetable patch, listing who’d visit first. They stayed up late, giggling over tea like newlyweds.
And Oliver finally understood: love isn’t houses or gadgets. Sometimes, it’s just letting your parents go where their heart is. Because home isn’t an address—it’s where you’re loved. And that cottage? That’s always been *home*.
