“Mum needs a rest.” He said those words every day after our son was born… and until the very end.
Every evening, coming home from work, he’d wash his hands first and then go straight to our son. Not even the smell of supper or his favourite paper could distract him. He’d lean over the cot, lift little Alfie into his arms—and in that moment, I’d fall for him all over again. For the man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. For the husband who remembered me.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he’d say with a smile, gently rocking Alfie in his arms, humming the lullaby until he drifted off.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he whispered in the dead of night, always the first to rise, changing nappies before quietly passing our son to me, waiting as I fed him, then tucking him back into his crib with such care.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he declared each evening, tying on an apron and spoon-feeding our stubborn, fussy boy, turning every bite of porridge into an adventure.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he repeated, bundling one-year-old Alfie into his coat for a walk so I could shower in peace or just sit alone—if only for half an hour.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he said, settling our growing son on his knee, spinning wild bedtime tales made up on the spot, just to keep him quiet and give me silence.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he muttered while checking homework, patiently explaining maths equations Alfie couldn’t grasp.
*”Mum needs a rest,”* he murmured when Alfie, now nearly grown, came home late from prom and shuffled straight to the kitchen without a word.
Every time I heard those words, warmth surged through me. My heart squeezed, eyes brimming—not in sorrow, no, but in joy. I wanted to freeze time, to stay wrapped in that love forever.
And then came the third stage of love. When the word *”Mum”* in his voice turned to *”Granny.”*
*”Granny needs a rest!”* He grinned at our grandson, Oliver, when he fussed for his parents during a weekend stay. Then he’d hum that same lullaby—only now to a different child.
*”Granny needs a rest,”* he winked, gathering fishing rods and leading Oliver and our grown Alfie off to the pond.
*”Granny needs a rest,”* he said softly, handing Oliver headphones so he’d turn down the tablet’s blaring cartoons.
He never got to meet our granddaughter. He left too soon, too quietly. The children took me in—wouldn’t let me stay alone in that empty house.
Then, holding tiny Sophie for the first time, I broke. I sobbed. I could almost hear his voice again, as if he stood right behind me, whispering:
*”Granny needs a rest…”*
I even turned around. A foolish hope. What if?
Later, as dusk settled and I drifted near sleep, a murmur floated in from the living room. Our grown Alfie’s voice:
*”Sleep now, love. Mum needs a rest…”*
I got up, cracked the door open, and saw him rocking his daughter’s cradle, humming that very same lullaby. The one his father once sang to him.
He’s gone now. But the words *”Mum needs a rest”* carry on. They live in us. In our son. In his children. And in memories even time can’t steal.
