“We don’t want to live here anymore, son. We’re going home. We just can’t take it,” his parents said, trading city luxury for their quiet village.
“Your parents have lost the charm, haven’t they, William? Anyone else would kill for this life!” Evelyn, his wife, snapped, her voice sharp with irritation. “A four-bedroom flat, meals delivered, everything at their fingertips—but nothing’s ever good enough for them!”
“Watch your tone, Evelyn,” William muttered darkly.
“But it’s true! They refuse to learn how to use the appliances, never step outside, always complaining. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
William stayed silent. He didn’t know what to say. His parents *had* changed. Once lively and warm, they now drifted through the flat like ghosts. He’d brought them to London, pulled them from that forgotten village, given them every luxury—and for what? Empty stares and quiet sorrow. Had he made a mistake?
The move had been delayed for years. William had pleaded, promised them the world. They hadn’t even sold their old cottage—not that they needed to, with his money. But now that they were here, their hearts seemed stuck back in that little house beneath the willow tree.
Henry and Agatha never adjusted. They missed their bustling lane, neighbours dropping by for tea, the vegetable patch, the scent of soil after rain. Here, it was strangers, locked doors, roaring traffic, endless rush. Even the car William bought for his father sat unused—Henry feared the signs, the turns, the unfamiliar roads.
“Wonder how the neighbours are doing,” Agatha sighed. “Bet the tomatoes did well this year, with all that rain… And I never got to make my blackberry jam.”
“Hush, love,” Henry whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Every night I dream of home. Everything’s so… *familiar* there. Here? We don’t belong.”
“We didn’t mean to hurt you, son,” Henry said softly when William stepped in later, arms full of shopping bags. “We know you tried… But this isn’t us. We can’t stay.”
“When did you last see him?” Henry added, voice breaking. “He lives down the street, but he’s never got time to visit. And Evelyn—she rolls her eyes every time I mention compost…”
William took in their weary faces, their calloused hands—hands that knew hard work, soil, simplicity. He didn’t understand. How could they walk away from everything he’d given them? But he didn’t argue.
“Alright. I’ll help you move next week. If it’s what you want.”
“Tomorrow?” Agatha asked hesitantly. “Could you spare time tomorrow?”
William nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
He couldn’t fully grasp it. The village had suffocated *him*. Yet for them, it was air. Maybe home wasn’t brick and comfort—maybe it was memory, scent, the quiet hum of crickets at dusk.
That evening, Henry and Agatha came alive again. Packing with smiles, dreaming of carrot seeds, planning their first guest. They drank tea through the night, whispering like sweethearts.
And William finally understood: love wasn’t just flats and gadgets. Sometimes, it was letting them go back to where their hearts lived. Because home isn’t an address. Home is where you’re loved. Where you’re waited for.
