**12th June, 2024**
Every evening when he came home from work, the first thing he did was wash his hands and head straight to our son. Not the scent of supper, not his favourite paper—nothing could pull him away. He’d lean over the cot, lift our little one into his arms, and in that moment, I’d fall in love with him all over again. With the man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. With the husband who remembered me.
*Mum needs a rest*, he’d say with a smile, gently rocking sleeping Oliver in his arms, humming a lullaby until our boy drifted off.
*Mum needs a rest*, he’d whisper in the dead of night, rising first to change the nappy, then passing our son to me for a feed before carefully settling him back into his crib.
*Mum needs a rest*, he declared every evening, tying an apron and spoon-feeding our stubborn, picky little lad, turning every meal into a game.
*Mum needs a rest*, he repeated, bundling a one-year-old Ollie into his pram so I could shower in peace or just sit alone—even for half an hour.
*Mum needs a rest*, he’d murmur, pulling our growing boy onto his knee, spinning magic tales on the spot just to give me a moment of quiet.
*Mum needs a rest*, he said, bent over homework, patiently explaining sums Oliver couldn’t grasp.
*Mum needs a rest*, he uttered softly when Ollie, now grown, crept home late from prom and slipped silently into the kitchen.
Every time I heard those words, my chest tightened, eyes brimming—not with sadness, no, but with quiet joy. I wished I could freeze time, live forever in this love.
Then came the third season of love. When *Mum* in his voice became *Gran*.
*Gran needs a rest!* He’d grin when our grandson, staying with us for the weekend, fussed for his parents. And there he was again, humming that same lullaby—just to a different child.
*Gran needs a rest*, he winked, packing fishing tackle and leading our grandson and grown-up son out to the pond.
*Gran needs a rest*, he’d murmur, handing the boy headphones to turn down the tablet’s blare.
He never got to meet our granddaughter. Left too soon, too quietly. The children took me in—couldn’t bear me alone in that empty house.
Then, the first time I held tiny Sophie, I broke. Sobs wracked me. I almost heard his voice, as if he stood behind me: *Gran needs a rest…*
I even turned. Foolish hope. Maybe—just maybe.
Later, as night settled, I caught a whisper from the living room. Our grown son Oliver’s voice:
*Sleep, sweetheart. Mum needs a rest.*
I rose, cracked the door, and watched him rock his daughter, humming that same lullaby. The one his father once sang to him.
He’s gone now. But the words *Mum needs a rest* live on. In our son. In his children. In memories even time can’t steal.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t lost when a voice goes quiet. It echoes in the ones who stay.
