“Mum needs a rest” – those were the words he repeated every day after our son was born… and until the very end.
Every evening, coming home from work, he’d wash his hands and go straight to our boy. Not the scent of dinner, not his favourite newspaper could distract him. He’d bend over the crib, lift our little one into his arms—and in that moment, I’d fall in love with him all over again. With the man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. With the husband who still remembered me.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d say with a smile, gently rocking sleeping Oliver, humming a lullaby until the boy drifted off.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d whisper in the dead of night, rising first to change the nappy, then carefully passing our son to me, waiting as I fed him before tucking him back into his cot.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d declare each evening, tying on an apron and spoon-feeding our stubborn, fussy little boy, turning every bite into an adventure.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d repeat, bundling up one-year-old Ollie for a walk so I could shower in peace—just half an hour to myself.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d murmur, settling our growing boy on his knee and spinning wild, on-the-spot fairy tales just to keep him entertained and give me quiet.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d say, checking homework, patiently explaining maths problems Oliver couldn’t grasp.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d softly tell our teenage son the night Oliver came home late from prom, slipping silently into the kitchen.
Every time I heard those words, warmth rushed over me. My heart would tighten, eyes brimming—not from pain, no, but from happiness. I wanted to freeze time, to live forever inside that love.
And then came love’s third act, when “Mum” in his voice turned to “Grandma.”
“Grandma needs a rest!” he’d grin at our grandson when the boy, staying over for the weekend, grew fussy and called for his parents. And just like that, he’d hum the same lullaby—but to a different child.
“Grandma needs a rest,” he’d wink, packing fishing gear and taking our grandson and son down to the lake.
“Grandma needs a rest,” he’d say gently, handing the boy headphones so he’d turn his tablet’s volume down.
He never got to meet our granddaughter. He left too soon, too quietly. The children took me in—they didn’t want me alone in our empty house.
And when I first held tiny Sophie, I broke—sobbing helplessly. I could almost hear his voice, as if he stood behind me, saying:
“Grandma needs a rest…”
I even turned around. A foolish hope… What if?
Later, as dusk settled and I began to drift off, a whisper drifted in from the living room. The voice of my grown son, Oliver:
“Sleep, sweetheart, sleep. Mum needs a rest…”
I rose, cracked the door open, and saw him swaying with his daughter, singing that same lullaby. The one his father once sang to him.
He’s not here anymore. But the words “Mum needs a rest” live on. In us. In our son. In his children. And in the memory even time can’t steal.
