**A Home for the Sons**
Nigel was the sort of man who could turn his hand to anything. He’d built a house, fathered two sons, and planted enough trees in his garden to make it look like a proper little woodland. All in all, not a bad innings.
He’d built the house himself, just on the outskirts of town—none of that suburban sprawl for him. Over the years, he’d added central heating, running water, all the comforts of a modern flat. Even fitted a proper bathtub. The only difference? Space—no poky rooms or nosy neighbours.
His wife, Eleanor, was a marvel—kept the house spotless, cooked like a dream, and somehow still had time to tend the vegetable patch. Nigel pitched in where he could, and together they raised their two boys, five years apart. Life was good.
Then Eleanor fell seriously ill and passed away when the youngest was still in primary school. Nigel grieved hard, but he kept it together—no drowning his sorrows at the pub. Still, running a household alone was no joke. He never once considered remarrying.
He and Eleanor had always hoped their boys would get a proper education, make something of themselves. They’d done everything to give them that chance. The eldest, Michael, finished school and went off to uni. When he married, Nigel thought, there’d be a woman in the house again. He was proud of Michael. The younger lad, Simon, wasn’t much for books but was a dab hand at helping his dad.
Sure enough, in his fourth year, Michael tied the knot.
“Plenty of room here. Built this place for you lot. What’s the point of rattling round some cramped flat with paper-thin walls and dodgy radiators? Here, you control the heating!” Try as he might, Nigel couldn’t talk the newlyweds out of renting.
Laura, Michael’s wife, wouldn’t hear of living in a house—let alone with her father-in-law. Michael, smitten, went along with it. Nigel sighed but let it go. If that’s how they wanted to live, so be it.
“You at least bring a wife back here one day. Who did I build this place for?” Nigel would grumble to Simon.
“Bit early for that,” Simon would deflect.
Come autumn, Nigel would bottle up preserves and offer half to Michael, who’d awkwardly refuse. “Laura feels bad taking them—she didn’t lift a finger to help grow them or pickle them.”
“I’m not handing them out to strangers—they’re for my own flesh and blood. Tell her not to fret. Take the jar before I take offence,” Nigel would say, thrusting a hefty bag at him. “Run out, there’s more.”
Simon left school but skipped uni, opting for the army instead.
One day, Michael dropped by, circling the conversation like a nervous pigeon. Nigel could see something was eating at him.
“Out with it, son. What’s on your mind?”
“Laura’s expecting. It’s a boy,” Michael blurted, watching his dad’s reaction.
Nigel beamed, clapped him on the back.
“But that’s not why you’re here, is it? Spit it out.”
“Money’s going to be tight once the baby’s here. Laura’s going on maternity leave soon. We can’t keep up with the rent.”
“Well, move in here! Simon’s away; you won’t be in anyone’s hair. Place is big enough. And if it’s not, we’ll add an extension! Fresh air, plenty of space—perfect for a little one. What’s stopping you?”
“Laura won’t have it. And how would it even work? Baby crying all hours, nappies drying everywhere. Then Simon comes back, gets married… Thanks, but no.”
“You’ve got another idea, haven’t you?” Nigel cut to the chase.
“Yeah. Laura’s dad suggested we go halves on a flat—his mate at work’s selling cheap, moving abroad.”
“How much are we talking? You’ll need more than a studio, surely.”
Michael named the sum.
“Is that the full price or just my half?”
“Yours,” Michael mumbled.
“That’s every penny I’ve got. Simon comes back, wants to marry—where’s his help? What if he fancies uni? Not fair, is it?”
“Dad, we’ll both help him! This flat’s a steal—we’ll never find another like it. Once the baby’s here, it’ll be chaos.”
Nigel spent the night tossing. No matter how he sliced it, Simon got the short end. But he wouldn’t be homeless. Maybe his future wife would be more agreeable. And he couldn’t leave Michael in the lurch. Would’ve been simpler if they’d just moved in… Then again, maybe they had a point. He remembered squeezing into his parents’ tiny flat after his own wedding—why he’d built this place in the first place.
Next morning, he called Michael and agreed. Soon enough, the flat was bought, and Nigel was invited round.
He hated it. After his spacious house, it felt claustrophobic—the kitchen barely fit a toaster. But Laura’s dad said young couples needed independence. Maybe he was right. Nigel bit his tongue, hoping at least Simon would stick around.
Simon returned from the army, landed a decent driving job.
“What’s the point of Michael’s degree?” he’d scoff. “Earning peanuts while I’m pulling in proper wages.”
A year later, Simon brought home a wife—no oil painting, but practical. Nigel was chuffed. Emily cooked, cleaned, kept house—though gardening wasn’t her thing. City girl.
Retirement saw Nigel diving into the veg patch. A neighbour, Margaret, often roped him into repairs or digging. Golden hands, that man. And still fit for his age. She repaid him in pies and stews.
One thing led to another. Soon, he was staying over. Fixed her place up lovely—looked like a dolls’ house. Two gardens’ worth of produce even turned a tidy profit.
But living together unwed didn’t sit right. He proposed. She refused.
“Got a daughter, see. Doesn’t mind us shacking up, but she’s worried you’ll claim the house if things go south.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Got my own. I’ll sign whatever you like.”
“Still… Why bother with paperwork at our age? You’re a good man, but marriage? Nah.”
Nigel let it go. She was a cracker of a housekeeper. They had a good run, but not long. One day, she was gone.
Her daughter turned up for the funeral. Straight after the wake, no beating about the bush:
“Thanks for everything, but time to push off, mate.”
Nigel packed up wordlessly. Back home, he threw himself into the gardens—too hard. One day, a stroke felled him. Quick ambulance, luckily. He bounced back, nearly good as new.
He’d hoped for grandkids. Michael and Laura had two, but they lived apart. Simon and Emily? No luck. They’d grown used to their freedom. His return cramped their style. Both earned well, saved hard—soon bought a one-bed flat and left.
Nigel was gutted. All that work, the house—for what? Neither son wanted him or his home. Then, digging one day, a second stroke hit. He recovered, but the garden went to seed. At least he could still manage alone, though his mind wasn’t what it was.
The brothers met to decide who’d take him. Michael’s trump card—two kids, a cramped two-bed. Simon, childless with a bigger one-bed, drew the short straw.
“If he’s with you, let’s sell the house and split the cash. Upgrade our places, take turns with Dad,” Michael suggested.
Simon agreed. Bought a two-bed, moved Nigel in. But the old man worsened—left the fridge open, flooded the bathroom, forgot faces.
Emily, back from work, faced mountains of laundry, cooking, cleaning up after him.
“I can’t take it. I’ll lose my mind. Do something. There’s homes for people like him.”
“He’s my dad. What’ll people say? Dumping him in some place?”
“Talk to Michael. Give me a break.”
Michael backpedalled. “Moving him’ll finish him off.”
Simon started hitting the bottle, dodging rows. When Nigel nearly set the flat alight, he caved. Paperwork sorted, care home booked, taxi waiting.
He found Nigel crying silently, tears lost in wrinkles. His heart lurched. The taxi honked. Emily stood by the door with a bag.
“Sorry, Dad. Time to go.”
He led Nigel out, shuffling. At the stairs, the old man stopped, looked at him—clear as day. Simon’s resolve wavered.
Then Nigel’s knees buckled. Simon barely caught him.
At the funeral, Michael shed a tear. “Great dad. Went easy, on his own two feet.”
Simon drowned in guiltAnd as the rain tapped gently on the church windows, Simon realised that no matter what he chose, regret would always be the one thing he could never outrun.
