Im fifty years old, and I still live with my parentswell, with my dad, ever since I had my son. My son is twenty now, and this house in Oxford has been our home his whole life. I have a brother and a sister, each settled in their own houses. My older brother, Charles, is a solicitor. My younger sister, Emily, is married and lives with her husband outside the city. For years now, Ive had more than enough saved to get myself a place or even to buy Dads house outright. I have triedGod knows I havebut for one reason or another, the paperwork never quite gets sorted. The only condition I want, if I ever do buy the house, is that it remains in Dads name for as long as he lives. I want him to feel secure, to know Id never leave him out in the cold. But we havent settled anything yet.
Dads over seventy nowa proud, blunt man, direct to a fault. Hes not unwilling, just less able to do the things he once did, as time inevitably takes its toll. Its been four years since Mum died, and he still misses her every day.
Both my son and I work, and together we cover most of the household expensesutilities, groceries, everyday meals. Dad chips in from his pension when he can, but hes grown awfully thrifty and, sometimes, suspicious. My brother only pops in to see him for half an hour, maybe twice a year, and Emily helps out here and thereshe cooks and keeps Dad company when my son and I are at work, and I give her a small token to say thank you.
With Dad, its often as though if we dont put the food directly in front of him, he wont eat. He hardly lifts a finger around the house anymore, though hell occasionally play with my dog Poppy, watch videos online, or nap in his chair. His biggest worry is running out of candles for the house and Mums graveand, of course, whether Poppy has had her walk and her treat. Shes his pampered granddaughter, curled up on his footstool while they nap together.
Sometimes I grumble, because there are months when I shoulder nearly the entire burden of running the house: food, bills, repairs. But then I remind myself how grateful I amto still have my dad, to sit with him, talk and laugh, to see how tenderly he dotes on my son and Poppy. He gave me everything growing up, and now its my turn to be there for himwith the same love and dedication he always showed me, in my care, my time, and the money I bring home.
Friends and relatives ask why I dont just move out and start fresh. But I cantnot when Dad might need me in the middle of the night, or any time at all. I hate the thought of him alone in this house, surrounded by memories and old photographs. Or worse, going out shopping and taking a fall without anyone around to help. He does go out on his own now and then, but we always know where he is, and we take him to his GP appointments together. I couldnt bear the guilt or worry, after all hes done for me.
Whatever else he isthrifty, stubborn, sometimes sharp-tongued, sometimes warm and cheerful, other times downhearted and anxioushes still my dad. I owe so much of who I am to him (and to Mum). When Im gone, what will I leave my boy? Ill leave him the knowledge of hard work, the value of perseverance, his education, andhopefullymy example. Perhaps, if things go according to plan, my fathers home as well; with one condition: as long as my dads with us, his name is on the deed, even if Im the one paying the mortgage.
