**A Home for Sons**
Edward was the sort of man who could do anything he set his mind to. He built a house, raised two sons, and planted an orchard on his property. All in all, he’d lived a good life.
The house he built himself, right on the outskirts of London, in a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Over time, he installed central heating, running water—all the comforts of a city flat, even a proper bathtub. Only it was roomier than any flat, with no nosy neighbours to bother them.
His wife, Charlotte, was clever and lovely, managing everything—meals, the house, the garden. Edward helped wherever he could. They had two sons, five years apart. Life was good.
Then Charlotte fell seriously ill and passed away when the younger boy, Simon, was in Year 5. Edward grieved long and hard but kept himself together. It wasn’t easy running the household alone—he missed her terribly. Remarrying never crossed his mind.
He and Charlotte had always hoped their boys would get a good education, find success. Edward did everything to make that happen. The elder, James, finished school and went to university. Soon enough, he’d marry, and there’d be a woman running the house again. Edward was proud. Simon wasn’t much for books but helped his father with everything.
In his final year, James did marry.
“There’s plenty of room here,” Edward said. “Why waste money on rent in some cramped flat, listening to neighbours through the walls? Here, you’ve got space, your own heating—no waiting for the council to decide when to turn it on.”
But no matter how he tried, James wouldn’t listen. His wife, Emily, refused outright to live in the suburbs, let alone with her father-in-law. And James, smitten, followed her lead. Edward swallowed his disappointment. Let them live as they pleased.
“You, at least, bring your wife home one day,” he’d say to Simon. “Who else did I build this place for?”
“Plenty of time for that,” Simon would wave him off.
Come autumn, Edward would pickle and preserve, setting aside half for James. But James rarely took much—Emily felt awkward, he said, since she hadn’t lifted a finger to help grow or prepare any of it.
“Take it. It’s for my own children, not strangers,” Edward insisted, shoving a heavy bag into his hands. “Eat it, or I’ll be properly cross. There’s always more.”
Simon left school early, joined the army.
One day, James came by, fidgeting, circling the point. Edward could see something weighed on him. Finally, he pushed: “Out with it.”
“Emily’s expecting. A boy,” James said, watching his father’s reaction.
Edward beamed, clapped him on the back.
“You didn’t come just to tell me that. Spit it out.”
“With the baby, expenses will pile up. Emily’s going on maternity leave. The rent—it’s too much.”
“Move in here, then. Simon’s away. There’s space—we’ll even build an extension if needed. Fresh air, good for the baby. What’s to think about?”
“Emily won’t have it. And what happens when Simon comes back? Or marries? No, it’s not the answer.”
“You’ve got another idea, then?”
James hesitated. “Emily’s father—he suggests you split the cost of a flat for us. His colleague’s selling cheap, moving abroad.”
Edward exhaled. “How much?”
James named the sum.
“Is that the full price? Or just my half?”
“Your half.”
“That’s everything I’ve got. What about Simon? If he wants to study? It’s not fair.”
“Dad, we’ll help him. This deal won’t come again. Please.”
Edward barely slept. No matter how he turned it, one son would lose out. But Simon wouldn’t be left destitute. Maybe his wife would be easier.
Morning came. He called James, agreed.
The flat was cramped, nothing like the house. But the father-in-law insisted: “Young couples need independence.” Edward held his tongue, hoping Simon might stay.
Simon returned, took a driving job—good pay. “What’s a degree worth?” he’d scoff. “James earns pennies.”
A year later, Simon brought home a wife—Lucy, no beauty but practical. Edward was overjoyed. She cooked, cleaned, though gardening wasn’t her thing.
Retired, Edward tended the garden. A neighbour—Margaret—often asked for help fixing things, digging plots. Skilled hands, he had. And she rewarded him with pies, stews.
One evening, he stayed. Fixed up her place till it shone. Two gardens meant surplus—they even sold some. Extra cash never hurt.
“Shame to live like this,” he said once. “Marry me.”
She refused. Had a daughter, feared he’d claim her house.
“I’ve my own. I’ll sign any paper.”
“It’s not proper at our age. You’re a good man, but no.”
Edward let it go. They lived well—until she died suddenly.
Her daughter came, thanked him stiffly, then: “Time you left.”
Silent, he packed and returned home. But grief and overwork brought a stroke. Quick recovery, but he wasn’t the same.
He’d hoped for grandchildren. James had two, but they lived apart. Simon and Lucy couldn’t conceive. Then they bought a flat, moved out.
Edward was crushed. The house—useless. A second stroke left him frail. The garden grew wild.
His mind slipped further. The brothers met—who would take him?
James had kids, a cramped two-bed. Simon, childless, had more space.
“Sell the house,” James said. “Split the money. He’ll take turns with us.”
Simon agreed, bought a bigger flat, moved Edward in.
But Edward wandered—left fridges open, taps running. Lucy, exhausted: “I can’t do this. There are homes for people like him.”
Simon drank, torn. Then one day, the paperwork was done. A car waited below.
Edward cried. Simon’s heart broke. The car honked.
“Come on, Dad.”
Edward shuffled, then paused, lucid for a second—just long enough for Simon to doubt.
Then he collapsed.
At the funeral, James wept, called Edward a fine father, gone peacefully.
Simon blamed himself. His marriage crumbled.
Some judged both brothers. Others, who’d cared for the frail, understood.
Why do children turn out so different? Same parents, same love.
No one knows what old age holds. Blessed are those whose parents keep their minds. May we never burden our children so.
Patience, health, and kindness to all.
