Parental Love
Mum always said, Children are the flowers of life. Dad, with a grin, would add, On their parents graves, hinting at all the mischief, tantrums and constant racket we brought into the house.
This afternoon, I slumped into the back of a black cab, a happy kind of weary after getting Oliver and Lucy strapped in. Lucy’s four now, and little Oliver is just over eighteen months. They had the time of their lives with their grandparentsbiscuits, endless hugs, stories and those slightly looser house rules that only seem to exist at Grandmas.
To be honest, I was grateful for the visit as well. Being back in my parents old Victorian semi in Canterbury, surrounded by my sisters and their children, felt like being wrapped in a blanket. No explanations required, just endless cups of tea, my mothers cottage pie (impossible to resist), the familiar battered boxes of Christmas baubles with their faded tinsel, and my father holding forth with his usual heartfelt, if slightly rambling, toasts. Mum always had those thoughtful gifts that somehow were precisely what you neededchosen with love.
For a fleeting moment, I was a child again and wanted nothing more than to say, Mum, Dad, thank you for everything.
This year, Tom and I decided to do something special for my parents. Not out of obligation, but from sincere gratitudefor the laughter and security of my childhood, for the boundless love poured into raising us, for the way they welcomed Tom into their hearts and trusted him with theirs, for always supporting our family with faith and kindness.
Tom once confessed quietly, I always dreamed of buying my dad a car. But he passed away before I could. After a long pause, he smiled and added, But we can still fulfil that dream for your dad.
I smiled at him, love and admiration swirling up inside me.
Just as planned, I took the kids over to my parents with Tupperware filled with homemade salads, roast beef, Victoria spongethe works. Oliver presented Granny with a bouquet of roses, nearly toppling over as he tried to lift them. Hugging Dad, I breathed in that comforting scent of home.
Wheres Tom? Whys he not with you? Mum asked, glancing around, the slightest furrow of worry between her brows.
Before I could answer, my phone rang. Thats Tom, I said, grinning. Bit held up says were to start without him.
The kids were already tearing into the front room, where presents were stacked under the tall, old tree, each labelled in gold script: From Father Christmas, For Lucy, or For Oliver. Lucy was spoiled, of course. A magical Cinderella coach lay in one box; in another, a pair of gleaming white horses with golden manes. There were glass slippers, a sparkly blue dress with a full skirt, long gloves dusted with rhinestones, pretend jewellery, a little make-up set, craft kits and towering piles of books.
For Oliver, an enormous set with a spiral car parktiny vehicles gleamed as they travelled up and down ramps with squeals of delight. There was a glowing dinosaur, a soft archery set, a pop-up ball pit, a cosmic-looking toy blaster and, of course, an avalanche of colouring books and gel pens.
There were gifts for me, too. In a petite box, tied with ribbon: delicate gold earrings sparkling in the fairy lights. And, taking pride of place on the table, my favourite hedgehog cake, iced with chocolate chips, almonds and dried fruit, just as my mother made it every year of my childhood.
Wed brought gifts, too: a beautiful French perfume for Mum, an intricate silver bracelet for Dad. Lucy solemnly handed over her own portrait of Granny and Grandadwonky and endearing, as though lifted from a Wanted poster, but so full of love that everyone burst out laughing.
But the best gift was on its way.
Half an hour later, just as the early toasts wound down, I put on the new earrings. Lucy watched closely, then asked, Mummy, did you wear those so I would say you look beautiful? I nodded.
You do look beautiful! she announced. And me! And Daddy too! Even Oliver! The room filled with laughter once again.
Wheres our favourite son-in-law? Time he made an appearance, isnt it? someone called.
Right then, the bell rang, the gates swung open, and a gleaming white car rolled onto the driveway, horn tooting and banded with ribbons and balloons.
We all trooped outside, breath clouding in the crisp air. There it stooda brand new car, chrome sparkling.
Tom stepped from the drivers seat, calm and quietly confident, and held out the keys to Dad. For you,” he said. “From all of us. With love.
Dad stared, flummoxed, shaking his head as if afraid to believe his eyes. Youre all mad, the lot of you. I cant possibly accept His words stumbled and caught. Someoneprobably Mumgently nudged him into the drivers seat. He stroked the wheel, glanced over the dashboard lit up with futuristic displays, the scent of leather and promise in the air.
Dad pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed his eyes, and finally managed, Well, I never… Then he got out, hugging each of us in turnme, Tom, the children, my mum.
It was a brilliant holiday. Two days filled with laughter and joy, both for the young and not-so-young. But, as ever, the visit sped past in a blur, and it was time to return home.
The morning after Boxing Day, Tom left early for work. Dad offered him a lift in his new cardriving with such pride he looked younger, as if some unseen burden had fallen away. My heart warmed as I watched them goour present doing precisely what wed hoped.
Later, with the children, I bundled up our lighter suitcases and called a cab. Lucy squeezed Gran one last time, Oliver waved at Grandad, clutching a shiny toy car for the road.
The taxi ride was quiet. The children, happily exhausted, snuggled together and were soon asleep, soft breathing filling the back seat.
About halfway home, I asked the driver to pull over at a little shop by the road. Two ticksI just need nappies and a bottle of water, I said.
Jumping out, I hurried in, purchased what I needed, and hopped back in a similar looking cabonly to feel a sudden cold dread. The back seat was empty.
The driver chatted away with an unknown woman in the front. I blinked in confusion.
Sorry I dont understandwhere are my children? My voice was shaky.
The woman whirled around. And who are you supposed to be? she shot back.
The driver shrugged, turning to me. Er, do I know you? Are you after something?
Are you joking?! Where are my kids?!
The woman shrieked at him, Youve got children as well?! and began walloping him with her handbag.
Excuse me, do you just let anyone in your cab? Where ARE my kids?! I yelled, feeling panic press at my chest.
Pandemonium eruptedyelling, accusations, hands waving. At last, after endless moments, the door creaked open and a mans calm voice cut through the chaos, Miss I think you got the wrong cab. Yours is just ahead.
The world steadied. Muttering apologies, cheeks burning, I hurried to the identical car in front. Opening the door, I found Lucy and Oliver, angelic, fast asleep and undisturbed.
I let out a breath I felt Id been holding for a lifetime, slumped in the seat and mumbled, Lets go.
Then, unexpectedly, I burst into laughtera blend of nerves and overwhelming relief. The driver joined in, wiping his eyes and muttering, Well, thats a story for the grandkids, isnt it?
Looking at my sleeping children, clarity flooded me: in everyday life, parents might seem tired, distracted or mild. But at the first hint of danger, you become a lioninstinctive, fearless, fiercely protective.
Thats parental love for you. Quiet and gentle when everythings safe but unbreakable when it matters most.
