**A Home for His Sons**
William was the kind of man who could handle anything. He built a house, raised two sons, and planted many trees on his property. In short, he had built a good life.
The house was his own work—built by hand in the outskirts of London, in a quiet neighborhood. Over time, he installed central heating, running water, and all the comforts of a modern flat. The only difference was the space—no cramped walls or noisy neighbors.
His wife, Emily, was a clever and kind woman who managed everything—cooking, cleaning, and tending the garden. William helped wherever he could. They had two sons, five years apart. Life was good.
Then Emily fell seriously ill and passed away when the youngest was still in primary school. William grieved deeply but held himself together. It was hard running the household alone, yet remarrying never crossed his mind.
He and Emily had always dreamed their boys would get a proper education, succeed in life, build careers. Everything was set for that. The eldest, James, finished school and went to university. Soon he’d marry, and a wife would join the household. William was proud. The younger, Oliver, wasn’t as studious but worked hard by his father’s side.
In his final year, James did marry.
“There’s plenty of room here,” William said. “I built this house for you both. Why waste money renting some cramped flat with thin walls and unreliable heating? This place is yours—turn the radiators on whenever you want.” But no matter how he argued, his son wouldn’t listen.
Sophie, James’s new wife, refused outright to live in a house with her father-in-law underfoot. And James, smitten, went along with it. William was hurt but relented. Let them live as they pleased.
“At least you’ll bring a wife home one day,” he said to Oliver. “Who else did I build this for?”
Oliver just shrugged. “Too soon to think about marriage.”
Every autumn, William stocked preserves—half of which he gave to James. But his son barely took any, embarrassed that Sophie had neither grown nor prepared a single jar.
“I’m giving to family, not strangers,” William insisted. “Take it without shame. Or I’ll be truly hurt.” He handed over a heavy bag. “Eat them. There’s always more.”
Oliver left school, skipped university, and enlisted in the army.
One day, James visited—but he circled the point, stammering. William saw the torment in his son’s face.
“Out with it. What’s troubling you?”
“Sophie’s pregnant. A boy.” James watched for his father’s reaction.
William beamed, clasped his shoulder. “But that’s not why you’re here. Spit it out.”
“With the baby, expenses will pile up. Sophie’s going on maternity leave—we can’t keep affording rent.”
“Then move here. Oliver’s away, you’ll have space. If it’s too small, we’ll extend. Fresh air, good for the child. Why hesitate?”
“Sophie won’t have it. A baby crying, nappies drying everywhere—what about when Oliver returns? Marries? Thanks, but it’s not the answer.”
“You’ve another plan, then?”
James exhaled. “Sophie’s father suggested we split the cost of a flat. His colleague’s selling cheap—moving abroad.”
“How much?”
James named the sum—William’s entire savings.
“That’s my half or the full price?”
“Just… yours.”
William shook his head. “Oliver will need help too. If he wants to study? This isn’t fair.”
James pressed, desperate. “We’ll both help him. Don’t miss this chance—after the baby comes, it’ll be impossible.”
William lay awake all night, torn. No way to please both sons. Oliver would have to make do. His future wife might accept the house. But he couldn’t abandon James either. Maybe they were right—young couples shouldn’t live with parents. He recalled his own newlywed years, crammed with his mum and dad in a tiny flat. That’s why he’d built this house—for space, for family. Yet now, his boys wanted flats of their own.
By morning, he agreed. James bought the flat, invited William to the housewarming.
The place felt suffocating after his home—the kitchen barely fit two. But Sophie’s father insisted independence was best. William held his tongue, praying Oliver might stay.
When Oliver returned, he took a well-paying job as a lorry driver.
“All that university, and James earns pennies,” he scoffed.
A year later, Oliver married—no beauty, but practical. Charlotte cooked, cleaned, kept the house tidy—though she hated gardening. City-bred.
William retired, tending the garden. A neighbor often asked for repairs or planting help. His hands were still skilled. In return, she fed him pies and stews. Eventually, he stayed overnight. Her house gleamed under his care. Their combined harvests even sold at the market.
It felt wrong, living unwed. He proposed—but she refused. Her daughter feared he’d claim the house.
“I’ve my own. I’ll sign any paper,” he said.
“Too risky. We’re not young—what’s a marriage certificate worth?”
He didn’t argue. They lived well—until she passed suddenly.
Her daughter arrived for the funeral. Before the wake ended, she turned to William: “Thank you for helping Mum. But you should go now.”
William packed silently. Back home, he worked the gardens relentlessly—until a stroke felled him. He recovered, but his strength waned. He’d hoped to dote on grandchildren. James and Sophie had two, but lived apart. Oliver and Charlotte remained childless. They’d saved enough—and soon bought a flat, leaving the house.
William was crushed. The house he’d built for them stood empty. A second stroke struck him in the garden. Though he regained his feet, the work was over. He could still care for himself—just barely—but grew forgetful.
As his mind faltered, the brothers met. James had two kids and a small flat; Oliver, no children but space.
“Sell the house, split the money,” James proposed. “We’ll take turns with Dad.”
Oliver agreed. He bought a two-bedroom flat, moved William in. But the old man left fridges open, taps running, soiled himself.
Charlotte cracked. “I can’t do this. Find him a home.”
Oliver wavered. “What kind of son sends his father to a home?”
“You’d rather lose me?”
Drinking to escape, Oliver finally gathered the paperwork. The home had a bed waiting.
At the door, William teared up. Oliver’s heart clenched—but the car honked, Charlotte stood ready with a bag.
“Come on, Dad,” Oliver whispered, guiding him like a child.
William shuffled, then paused at the stairs. His gaze sharpened—brief, lucid. Oliver’s chest ached. Was this right?
Then William sagged, eyes rolling back. Oliver barely caught him before he hit the floor.
At the funeral, James praised their father—gone swiftly, on his own feet.
Oliver drowned in guilt. His marriage soured. Some blamed both sons; others understood—those who’d nursed fading parents knew the weight.
Why do children from one home turn out so different? Love was equal. Yet life isn’t fair.
No one knows what old age holds. Blessed are those whose parents keep their minds till the end. May none of us become burdens.
Patience, kindness, health—cherish them while you can.
