“I think John’s really slowing down,” said Emma to her husband as she prepared the potato salad.
“What makes you say that?” asked Peter, surprised.
“He couldn’t even lift little Sophie to put the star on the Christmas tree. And back in the day—” Emma sighed.
“Dad’s still got plenty of life in him, maybe he was just tired,” Peter replied.
“No, Peter, age catches up with all of us. You’ll need to start doing their weekly shopping now—no arguments.” Emma brushed back her hair and picked up the salad bowl. “Come on, dinner’s ready.”
John had heard everything. He paused to flick on the bathroom light and accidentally caught his son and daughter-in-law’s conversation.
The New Year’s Eve tradition in the Thompson household was unshakable—everyone gathered at the grandparents’ for a festive feast, celebrating their favourite winter holiday. This year was no exception. Peter and his family arrived first. Emma helped set the table while the grandchildren excitedly decorated the tree in the living room.
John turned on the tap, then sat on the edge of the bathtub.
“She’s right, isn’t she? Ever since I retired, that feeling of being useless crept in. Then it all spiralled—no motivation, no joy, just… emptiness.”
“John, are you alright?” Emma’s voice was soft as she approached the bathroom door.
“Fine, just coming out,” he replied.
Outside, little Alfie was bouncing impatiently.
“Come in, then!” John let his grandson inside.
At the dinner table, John grew quieter, raising his glass half-heartedly during the toasts.
“Dad, you seem down. It’s a celebration—you feeling okay?” Peter asked as they prepared to leave. Standing in the hallway, Emma nudged him to say more.
“Just fine, son. Bring the kids round for half-term. Not going away anywhere?” John forced a smile.
“We’ve got the house renovation, John, no holidays this year. You should rest too—we’ll send the kids to my parents’,” Emma interjected.
“Right, if you’ve already sorted it. Can’t deny doting grandparents their time.” John’s voice was heavy.
Emma whispered something to Peter.
“I’ll drop by Sunday with groceries,” Peter said before heading out.
His mother, Margaret, frowned. “What groceries? The shops are just round the corner! If we need anything, your father can pop out.”
“No need, Margaret. Peter will handle it. No point hauling bags up five flights—you should relax,” Emma insisted.
Once they’d gone, Margaret muttered, “First, they take the grandkids away, now we can’t even shop for ourselves—why’s she always like this?”
“Emma’s a good woman, Margaret. She cares for us—don’t overthink it,” John said.
“We’re not ninety, for heaven’s sake! Feels like they’ve written us off already.”
“They’ll bring the kids next time. They’re just visiting her folks this trip.”
Margaret fell silent.
Then it struck her. Maybe she’d been unfair. Emma was always the one helping, always cheerful and considerate. Their other daughter-in-law only showed up for meals and to raid the pantry. And as for their son-in-law—well, that was another story.
“John, why so glum?” Margaret turned to her husband.
“Just tired,” he deflected.
“Right—rest then. I’ll turn the telly on,” she said, retreating to the kitchen to put away the dishes Emma had washed.
John lay on the sofa, lost in thought.
“Couldn’t lift Sophie for the tree today—come summer, how will I reach the apples for her? She’s still so small. Where’d my strength go?”
Then and there, John decided to get himself in shape by summer. Not like he was twenty, but enough to lift his granddaughter without a struggle.
And so it began. Daily walks, no excuses. He dusted off old dumbbells under the bed—lifting them gave him a thrill. Soon, he was at the park pull-up bars, working out alongside teenagers. Gradually, his strength returned. By summer, he’d cleared the garden shed of clutter and built a play area for his grandkids.
In August, when the plums ripened, Peter brought the children to the house. Sophie adored the little playground. Even Alfie was impressed. John spent the whole day with them—gardening, swimming at the lake, building sandcastles.
The next day, Alfie pointed at a plum. “Grandad, can you get me that one?”
“Go on, lad, you can reach it,” John said, scooping him up with ease. Alfie plucked not one, but three plums.
“Me next, Grandad!” Sophie clapped excitedly.
“Up you go!” John laughed, lifting her effortlessly. “Still got it in me, haven’t I?”
Never lose heart. When there’s even a sliver of hope, keep going. Cherish each day—life’s too precious to waste.
