“Son, we don’t want to live here anymore. We’re going back home. We just can’t bear it any longer.”—his parents had turned their backs on city comforts for the sake of their village.
“Have your parents lost their minds, Oliver?” snapped Emily, his wife, frustration sharp in her voice. “Who wouldn’t kill for this? A four-bedroom flat, meals ready, everything at your fingertips! And yet they’re never happy!”
“Watch your tone, Emily,” Oliver shot back, his jaw tight.
“But it’s the truth! They refuse to learn how to use the appliances, they barely step outside—always complaining. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
Oliver stayed silent. He didn’t understand it either. His parents had changed. Once lively, full of laughter—now they wandered the flat like ghosts. He’d brought them to the city, pulled them from that sleepy village, given them every luxury. And what had it earned him? Empty stares and quiet sorrow. Had he made a mistake?
The move had been delayed for ages. Oliver had pleaded, promised them the world. His parents never sold their cottage—not that they needed to, with his savings. In the end, they came, but their hearts stayed behind, under the old oak tree in the garden.
George and Margaret never adjusted. They missed the bustling lanes, neighbours dropping by for tea, the vegetable patch, the scent of soil after rain. Here, everything was strangers, locked doors, speeding cars, endless noise. Even the car Oliver had bought his father sat unused—too many signs, too many turns, too many unfamiliar roads.
“How are the neighbours back home?” Margaret sighed. “Must’ve had a good year for tomatoes, with all this rain… And I never got round to making blackberry jam.”
“Hush now, love…” George muttered, wiping his eyes. “I see the house in my dreams every night. It’s where we belong. Here… we’re just visitors.”
“We never meant to upset you, son,” Margaret murmured. “We know you tried. But this isn’t us. We can’t live like this.”
George shook his head. “When was the last time you even saw the place? Just down the lane, but you’re too busy. And Emily—she rolls her eyes every time I mention the garden…”
Just then, Oliver stepped inside, arms full of groceries, new things in bags. He took one look at their faces and knew—it was time to talk.
“Mum, Dad… what’s wrong?”
“Son… we’re leaving,” George said softly. “Going back home. We can’t do this anymore. It’s draining us. We don’t belong here. We’ve got the cottage, the garden, the old oak out front. This place is grand, yes… but it’s not ours.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He studied them—their tired eyes, their hands, roughened from years of work. How could they walk away from everything he’d given them? Yet he couldn’t fight it.
“Alright. I’ll help you move next week. If that’s what you want, I’ll respect it.”
“Tomorrow?” Margaret asked hesitantly. “Could you manage tomorrow?”
Oliver nodded. “If that’s what you need.”
He didn’t fully understand. To him, that village had been stifling. But for them? It was life itself. Maybe home wasn’t about bricks and convenience. Maybe it was memory, scent, quiet mornings, birdsong.
That evening, George and Margaret came alive again. Packing with smiles, planning their carrots, listing who they’d invite first. They stayed up all night, whispering over tea like sweethearts.
And Oliver realised—sometimes love isn’t flats and gadgets. Sometimes, it’s just letting your parents go where their hearts are. Because home isn’t an address. It’s where you’re loved.
