**A House for Sons**
Charles was the sort of man who could do anything. He built a house, raised two sons, and planted trees all over his plot of land. In short, he’d lived a meaningful life.
He built the house himself, with his own hands, within the city limits, on a quiet street. Over time, he installed central heating, running water—everything you’d expect in a modern flat, even fitted a proper bathtub. Only this house was far roomier, with no nosy neighbours to complain about.
His clever, beautiful wife managed everything—feeding the family, keeping the house tidy, tending the garden. Charles always helped. Two sons grew up in the household, five years apart. Life was good.
Then his wife fell seriously ill and passed away when the younger boy was in primary school. Charles grieved long and hard, but he kept himself together, didn’t drown his sorrows in drink. It was tough managing alone—the house needed a woman’s touch. But he never considered remarrying.
He and his wife had always dreamed their children would get a good education, make something of themselves. They’d done everything to make it happen. The eldest, Oliver, finished school and went to university. Once he married, there’d be a proper mistress of the house. Charles was proud. The younger one, Harry, wasn’t much for books but helped his father with everything.
In his fourth year, Oliver did marry.
“Plenty of room here,” Charles said. “I built this house for you. What’s the point of living in some cramped flat with neighbours? Thin walls, leaks, waiting for the heating to come on in autumn—here, you just turn it on when you want.” But no matter how he argued, it was no use.
Eleanor, Oliver’s new wife, refused outright to live in a house—especially with her husband’s father. And Oliver, smitten as he was, went along with it. Charles swallowed his disappointment. Let them live as they pleased.
“You’ll bring a wife home at least, won’t you? Who else did I build this place for?” he’d ask Harry.
“Too soon to think about that,” Harry would brush him off.
Come autumn, Charles would stockpile preserves, handing half to Oliver. But his son hardly took any—Eleanor felt awkward, he said, since she’d done nothing to help grow or jar them.
“I’m not feeding strangers—it’s for my own children. Take it, eat it, or I’ll take real offence,” Charles would insist, thrusting a bulging bag into his hands. “Run out, I’ll give you more.”
Harry left school but didn’t fancy further study—he joined the army instead.
One day, Oliver came by. He fidgeted, circling the subject, clearly wrestling with something. Charles prodded him gently until it all spilled out.
“Eleanor’s expecting. It’s a boy,” Oliver said, watching his father’s reaction.
Charles beamed, congratulated him.
“But that’s not why you’re here. Out with it.”
“With the baby, expenses will pile up—it’s just my salary. Eleanor’s going on maternity leave. The rent’s too much.”
“Then move in with me! Harry’s enlisted—you won’t be in anyone’s way. The house is big, plenty of space. Not enough? We’ll add an extension. All the comforts here, cleaner air than in the city centre—perfect for a baby. What’s there to think about?”
But Oliver shook his head. “Eleanor won’t have it. And how would we all manage? A crying baby keeping you up, nappies drying everywhere. And when Harry returns, marries—thanks, but no. It wouldn’t work.”
“You didn’t come just to talk, did you? You’ve another idea.”
“I do. Eleanor’s father suggested you both pitch in to buy us a flat. His colleague’s selling cheap—moving abroad.”
“How much?”
Oliver named a figure.
“Is that the whole price, or just my half?”
“Your half,” Oliver admitted.
“That’s everything I’ve got. What about Harry? If he marries, wants to study—it’s not fair.”
“We’ll help him together, Dad. Please—it’s a rare chance.”
Charles lay awake all night, torn. Nothing he thought of satisfied both sons. Harry would get less, but he wouldn’t be left destitute. Maybe his wife would be easier, happy to run the big house. But he couldn’t abandon Oliver either.
He remembered his own cramped early married years with his parents and why he’d built the house—space for everyone. But young couples these days wanted flats, not gardens.
By morning, he’d made up his mind. He called Oliver and agreed. Soon, his son bought the flat and invited him to see it.
Charles hated it. After the open rooms of his house, it felt suffocating—the kitchen, especially, was tiny. But Eleanor’s father insisted young couples needed independence. Maybe he was right. Charles bit his tongue, hoping at least Harry would stay with him.
Harry returned from the army, landed a decent job as a lorry driver.
“Oliver’s got his degree, so what?” he’d scoff. “Works himself ragged for pennies.”
A year later, Harry brought home a wife—plain but practical. Charles was delighted. Emily cooked, cleaned, managed the house, though she hated gardening. A city girl.
Retired, Charles tended the garden. A neighbour often asked for help—fixing things, digging plots. He didn’t mind. She repaid him with pies and stews. Before long, he was staying over. Her house, once shabby, now looked smart under his care. Two gardens yielded enough to sell—extra money never hurt.
“You shouldn’t live like this, unwed,” he said one day, proposing.
She refused. Her daughter, settled with her own family, feared he might claim her house.
“I wouldn’t. I’ve my own. I’ll sign any paper.”
“Even so… No need for certificates at our age. You’re a good man, but no.”
He didn’t push it. Life was peaceful—but brief. She died suddenly one day.
Her daughter arrived for the funeral. Straight after, she told Charles it was time to leave.
He packed silently, returned home. The grief, the strain of working both plots, brought on a stroke. The ambulance came swiftly—he recovered, though not fully.
He’d hoped for grandchildren. Oliver and Eleanor had a second child, living apart. Harry and Emily remained childless. They’d grown comfortable, and Charles’ return unsettled them. Well-paid, with little to spend on, they bought a one-bed flat and moved out.
It crushed Charles. All that work, the house he’d built—for nothing. They didn’t want him or his home. Then, digging in the garden, he suffered a second stroke. He survived but could no longer tend the land. Thank God he could still care for himself—though his memory faltered.
Time worsened his mind. The brothers met to decide who’d take him. Oliver’s two-bed flat was cramped, with two kids. Harry, childless, had more space, though still just a one-bed.
“If he lives with you,” Oliver reasoned, “why keep the house? Sell it, split the money—buy bigger flats. We’ll take turns hosting him.”
Harry agreed. He bought a two-bed flat and moved Charles in. But his father declined rapidly. Harry and Emily worked; Charles left the fridge open all day, spoiled food, forgot the toilet, flooded the neighbours.
At times, he didn’t recognise his own son. Emily, exhausted, snapped.
“I can’t take it! There are homes for people like him—special care. I’ll leave you!”
Harry wavered. “It’s cruel—he’s our father.”
“Then talk to Oliver. Let us breathe!”
Oliver reneged. “Moving him would finish him.”
Lost, Harry drank, dodging arguments, until Charles nearly burned the flat down. Defeated, he arranged for a care home.
His heart ached. His father—once so capable—now a helpless child. But he couldn’t lose Emily either.
Paperwork done, fees paid, the car waited below. Harry found Charles weeping, tears vanishing into wrinkles.
His heart cracked. He turned away, wiping his eyes. The car honked; Emily stood ready with Charles’ bag.
“Sorry, Dad. Time to go.”
Charles shuffled obediently. At the stairs, he stopped, looked sharply at Harry—who hesitated. Maybe this was wrong.
Then Charles sagged against him, eyes rolling back. Harry barely caught him before he hit the concrete.
At the funeral, Oliver wept, praising their father—how lucky he’d died on his feet, spared worse.
Harry never shook the guilt. His marriage soured. He understood Emily’s strain—but still.
Some blamed both brothers. Those who’d cared for the sick understood—sympathised with Harry, who’d borne the worst.
How could siblings turn out so different? Same parents, same love.
No one knows whatAnd as the years passed quietly, the old house stood empty, its rooms filled only with the echoes of a family that had once been whole.
