**A Home for My Sons**
I was always the sort of man who could manage anything. I built a house, raised two sons, and planted a proper garden. By all accounts, I’d lived a good life.
The house—I built it myself, just outside London, in a quiet neighbourhood. Over time, I fitted it with central heating, running water, all the comforts of a modern flat, even a proper bathtub. Only this place was bigger, no nosy neighbours breathing down your neck.
My wife, Eleanor—clever and lovely—kept everything in order: cooking, cleaning, tending the garden. I helped where I could. Our two boys, Thomas and Edward, were five years apart. Life was good.
Then Eleanor fell ill. Cancer, the doctors said. She passed when Edward was still in primary school. God, how I grieved. But I didn’t drown in drink, didn’t let myself go. Still, keeping up the place alone was hard—no woman’s touch about the house. Remarrying? Never crossed my mind.
We’d always wanted the boys to get a proper education, make something of themselves. Did everything to see it through. Thomas finished school, got into uni. Soon enough, he’d marry, and there’d be a wife to keep the home. Proud of him, I was. Edward? Not one for books, but he had my knack for fixing things.
Then Thomas married in his fourth year.
“Plenty of room here,” I told him. “Built this house for you. Why waste money renting some cramped flat with thin walls and neighbours stomping about? Here, you’ve got space, privacy—turn the heat on when you please.”
But no. Charlotte, his new wife, wouldn’t hear of it. A country house? With her father-in-law underfoot? Thomas went along with whatever she wanted—love makes fools of us all. I swallowed my pride. Let them live as they liked.
“At least you bring a wife home one day,” I’d say to Edward. “What’s the point of this place otherwise?”
“Not ready for that yet,” he’d say, brushing me off.
Every autumn, I’d bottle preserves, jams, pickles—half for Thomas. But he barely took any. “Charlotte’s embarrassed,” he said. Didn’t lift a finger to help grow or pickle a thing.
“They’re for family,” I’d insist, shoving a heavy bag into his hands. “No shame in that. Take them, or I’ll take offence.”
Edward left school, didn’t fancy uni—joined the army instead.
Then one evening, Thomas came by. Nervous, circling the point like a dog round a lamppost. I knew something weighed on him.
“Out with it,” I said finally.
“Charlotte’s pregnant. A boy,” he said, watching my face.
Course I was pleased. Congratulated him.
“But that’s not why you’re here. Spit it out.”
“With the baby, money’ll be tight. Charlotte’s going on maternity leave. Renting’s bleeding us dry.”
“Move in here,” I said. “Edward’s away. Plenty of room. We’ll add on if needed. Fresh air, space for the little one—perfect.”
“Charlotte won’t have it,” Thomas said. “What if Edward comes back? Gets married? No, it’s not the answer.”
“You’ve another idea then?”
“Charlotte’s father… he thinks we should split the cost of a flat. A mate of his is selling cheap—moving abroad.”
“How much?”
Thomas named the figure.
“That’s my share or the whole lot?”
“Just yours.”
Every penny I had. What about Edward when he returned? If he wanted to study? It wasn’t fair.
Thomas pressed. “We’ll help him. This is a one-off chance.”
I didn’t sleep that night. How to please both sons? In the end, I gave Thomas the money.
The flat was dreadful—cramped after my house, kitchen no bigger than a cupboard. But Charlotte’s father said young couples needed independence. Maybe he was right. I held out hope Edward might stay.
Edward came back from service, got a decent job driving lorries.
“All that schooling Thomas had,” he’d say. “And what’s he got to show for it?”
A year later, Edward brought home a wife—Grace. Not a beauty, but practical. Kept the house well, though she’d no interest in the garden. Town girl.
I retired, tended the plot full-time. The widow next door, Margaret, often asked for help—fixing a fence, turning the soil. I didn’t mind. Hands still good. She repaid me with pies, stews. Soon enough, I stayed over.
Her house needed work—I put it right. Between our two gardens, we had enough to sell at market. Extra coin never hurt.
But living unwed didn’t sit right. I proposed.
She refused. Had a daughter, didn’t want complications. “We’re not young. What’s the point of vows?”
I let it be. We were happy enough—until she passed sudden one winter.
Her daughter turned up for the funeral. Straight after, she made it clear—time for me to go.
I packed quietly, returned to my own house. But the grief, the strain of two gardens—it broke me. A stroke. They got me to hospital quick. Recovered well, but not the same.
I’d hoped for grandchildren. Thomas and Charlotte had another, but they kept their distance. Edward and Grace—no luck. They’d grown used to their freedom. My return didn’t please them.
They moved out, bought a flat. Broke my heart. What was the house for, then? All that work for nothing.
Then the second stroke. Couldn’t manage the garden after. Mind started slipping—forgetful, confused.
The brothers met. Who’d take me in? Thomas had two kids, a small flat. Edward had space, no children.
“Sell the house,” Thomas said. “Split the money. Take turns with Dad.”
Edward agreed. Bought a bigger flat, moved me in. But I worsened—left taps running, fridge open, soiled myself. Grace was at her wit’s end.
“I can’t do this,” she told Edward. “There are homes for cases like his.”
“I can’t dump him there,” Edward said.
But in the end, he did.
The day came. Car waiting downstairs. Edward took my hand. I looked at him—really looked. He turned away, wiping his eyes.
Then my legs gave out.
At the funeral, Thomas wept. Said I’d been a good father, gone quick and easy.
Edward couldn’t shake the guilt. His marriage frayed. Some blamed him. Others understood—those who’d cared for the old and failing.
Why do children turn out so different? Same parents, same love.
None of us know what age will bring. Lucky those whose parents keep their wits. God spare us from becoming burdens.
Wish us all patience, health, and kindness.
