My brother and I are long grown, but our father remains the heart of our family.
Though we are both men with families of our own now, our seventy-year-old father still holds a special place in our hearts. He lives alone in a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Mother passed some years ago, and I—along with my brother, Edward—do our best to ensure Father never feels lonely, always surrounded by warmth and care. My name is Thomas, and my brother is Edward. Despite busy lives, we make time to visit him regularly, though work often demands much of our days.
I call on Father every Sunday. I prepare meals for the week ahead: roast dinners, stews, shepherd’s pie, and puddings. He always jokes that I cook better than any London restaurant, though I know it’s his way of making me smile. While the pots simmer, I tidy the house and see that everything is in order. His name is William Henry, and he loves to reminisce about his youth, telling the same tales I’ve heard countless times. Yet I listen all the same—those stories are his life, and I cherish the light in his eyes when he speaks of the past.
Edward visits on Wednesdays. He lives farther away but never fails to make the journey. My brother tends to the practical matters—fixing leaking pipes, mowing the lawn, clearing snow in winter. Father insists on helping, but we persuade him to rest. “You lads keep me on my toes,” he chuckles. Often, Edward brings his seven-year-old daughter, Emily. She adores her grandfather, and he dotes on her in return, reading fairy tales or teaching her draughts. These moments are pure joy for him.
Father remains lively despite his years. He keeps a small garden where he grows potatoes, runner beans, and herbs, claiming the work keeps him strong. He enjoys reading the papers and watching old films. Sometimes, Edward and I coax him to join us for outings or visits, but he usually declines. “I’m content right here,” he says. Still, we know our visits mean the world—though he’d never say it aloud, his smile speaks volumes.
Edward and I are quite different, yet we share one thing completely: our deep respect for Father. He is more than a parent—he is our guiding star. I remember how he taught us the value of hard work, honesty, and kindness. Even now, as fathers ourselves, we still look to him. After Mother’s passing, he grew quieter, but we try to fill that silence with love. Sometimes, I think how pleased she’d be, seeing how we care for him.
My wife, Margaret, is fond of Father too. She often sends him homemade bread or jam. He thanks her warmly, teasing that we’ve “spoilt him rotten.” We have two children—twelve-year-old Henry, who helps in the garden, and nine-year-old Alice, who hangs on every word of Grandfather’s stories. These visits bind us together.
At times, I reflect on how swiftly time passes. Father isn’t as spry as he once was, but his spirit is undimmed. Edward and I have vowed never to leave him alone—if need be, he’ll live with one of us or have a caretaker. But while he chooses his independence, we honour it. What matters is that he knows we are always here.
Our Sunday and Wednesday visits have become tradition. It’s not just about meals or chores—it’s how we show Father he is cherished. When I see him smile, hugging Emily or thanking us for supper, I understand: these moments are priceless. Life has taught me to treasure family, and I’m grateful beyond words that Father still unites us all.
