**A Home for the Sons**
Edward was one of those men who could do anything. He built a house, fathered two sons, and filled his garden with trees. All in all, he’d lived a good life.
He built the house himself, by hand, on the outskirts of Liverpool, in a quiet neighbourhood. Over time, he installed central heating and running water—made it just as comfortable as a city flat, even fitted a proper bathtub. The only difference? More space and no noisy neighbours.
His wife, Claire—smart as a whip and beautiful—kept everything running: cooking, cleaning, tending the garden. Edward helped where he could. Their two sons, five years apart, grew up strong and happy. Life was good.
Then Claire fell seriously ill and passed away when the younger boy, Daniel, was in Year 4. Edward grieved long and hard but held himself together, never turned to the bottle. It was tough without her—missed her touch around the house. But remarrying? Never crossed his mind.
They’d always wanted their boys to get a good education, make something of themselves. And he’d done his part. The eldest, James, finished school and went to uni. Married now—soon there’d be a proper mistress of the house. Edward was proud. Daniel? Not so book-smart, but always eager to help.
In his final year, James did marry.
“Plenty of room here,” Edward said. “I built this house for you. What’s the point of some cramped flat with neighbours? Thin walls, leaks, waiting on the council to flick the heating on. Here, you turn the knob when you please.” But no matter how hard he tried, James wouldn’t budge.
Jessica, James’s wife, refused outright—no way was she moving into a house with her father-in-law. And James? Went along with whatever she wanted, head over heels. Edward swallowed his disappointment. Fine, let them live how they liked.
“You at least bring a wife home one day,” Edward told Daniel. “Who else did I build this for?”
“Bit early for that,” Daniel would brush him off.
Every autumn, Edward would make preserves, jams—offered half to James. But he barely took any. “Jessica’s embarrassed,” James would say. “She didn’t grow the stuff, didn’t help jar it.”
“Not for strangers—for my own son. No shame in it. Take it, eat it, or I’ll be proper cross,” Edward insisted, shoving a heavy bag into his hands. “Run out, I’ll give you more.”
Daniel left school, passed on uni, and enlisted instead.
One day, James dropped by. Talk was stilted—dancing around something. Edward could see it eating at him. Finally, he pressed him.
“Jessica’s pregnant. It’s a boy,” James said, watching his father’s face.
Edward beamed, clapped him on the back.
“But you didn’t come just to tell me that. Spit it out.”
“With a baby, expenses’ll pile up, and it’s just my wage—Jessica’s going on leave soon. The rent’s stretching us thin.”
“Move in here. Daniel’s enlisted, won’t be in your way. Plenty of space. Need more? We’ll build an extension. Central heating, garden—cleaner air than the city centre. Perfect for a baby,” Edward urged.
“Jessica won’t have it. A baby crying all night? Nappies drying everywhere? And what when Daniel comes back? Marries? Thanks, but it’s not the answer.”
“Then what is?”
“Jessica’s dad’s idea—we split the cost of a flat. His colleague’s selling cheap. Moving abroad.”
“How much?”
James named the sum.
“That the full price or just my half?”
“Your half.”
Edward exhaled. “That’s everything I’ve got. Daniel comes back, wants to marry—how’s that fair? What if he wants to study?”
“Dad, we’ll help him. Can’t pass this up—won’t find another deal like it.”
Edward lay awake all night. No matter how he twisted it, one son got the short straw. But Daniel wouldn’t be homeless. Maybe his wife’d be easier—happy to run the house. And he couldn’t leave James hanging.
Memory flickered—how cramped it’d been when he’d first married, sharing with his parents. That’s why he’d built this place. But young folk now? No interest in digging dirt. Give them a flat.
Next morning, he phoned James—money was his. The flat was bought. Edward visited.
Hated it. Cramped after his house, kitchen tiny as a cupboard. But his new in-law said young couples needed independence. Maybe he was right. Edward held his tongue, praying Daniel would stay.
Daniel came back, took a job driving lorries—good pay.
“What’s the point of James’s degree?” he’d say. “Earns pennies.”
A year later, Daniel married. Not a beauty, but practical. Edward adored her. Sophie cooked, cleaned—just hated gardening. City girl.
Edward retired, dug into the garden. A neighbour often asked for help—fixing things, turning soil. He didn’t mind. Still handsome for his age. She repaid him with pies, stews.
One thing led to another—he stayed. Spruced up her house, sold extra veg. Extra cash never hurt.
“Not right, living unwed,” he said one day. Proposed.
She refused. Had a daughter, feared he’d claim the house.
“Won’t happen. Got my own. Can sign papers.”
“Still. Too risky. We’re not young—why the stamp in the passport?”
He let it go. She was a good woman. But their time was short—one morning, she was gone.
Her daughter came for the funeral. Afterwards, no fuss—told Edward to leave.
He packed quietly, returned home. But the grief, the work—he had a stroke. Quick recovery, but not the same.
Hoped for grandkids. James and Jessica had two now. Daniel and Sophie? None. They liked their freedom—his return didn’t thrill them. Both earned well, saved up, bought a flat. Left.
Edward was crushed. Pointless, all that work. Neither he nor his house mattered.
Then, gardening—second stroke. He walked again, but no more digging. Managed alone, though his mind slipped.
Worse it got. The brothers met—who’d take him?
James had two kids, a small flat. Daniel—no kids, bigger flat.
“If he’s with you, why keep the house? Sell it, split the cash. Buy bigger flats—take turns with Dad,” James said.
Daniel agreed. Bought a two-bed, moved Edward in. But he worsened. Left the fridge open, flooded the bathroom, wandered.
Sophie cracked. “I can’t. Work all day, then this? Put him in a home.”
“He’s my father.”
“Then talk to James.”
James backtracked. “Moving’ll finish him.”
Daniel drank—arguments, guilt. When Edward nearly burned the flat, he gave in.
Packed his things. At the door, Edward’s tears pricked his heart. The car honked. Sophie waited.
“Sorry, Dad. Time to go.”
Edward shuffled. At the stairs, he stopped—looked straight at Daniel. Heart aching, Daniel hesitated. Right choice?
Then Edward’s legs buckled—Daniel barely caught him.
At the funeral, James wept. Praised their father. Said he’d gone easy, on his feet till the end.
Daniel couldn’t shake the guilt. His marriage crumbled. He understood Sophie—but still.
Some judged them both. Others, who’d cared for the elderly, pitied Daniel. He’d borne the load, made the hard call.
Why’d two brothers turn out so different? Same parents, same love.
No one knows what old age brings. Lucky those whose parents keep their minds. God spare us from becoming burdens.
Be kind. Be patient. Stay well.
