“Mum needs a rest”—those words echoed through the years, from the moment our son was born until the very end.
Every evening, after coming home from work, he’d wash his hands and go straight to our baby. Not the scent of dinner, not his favourite paper—nothing could pull him away. He’d lean over the crib, lift little Oliver into his arms, and in that moment, I’d fall in love with him all over again. The man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. The husband who remembered me.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d murmur with a smile, rocking our sleeping boy gently in his arms, humming that same lullaby until Oliver drifted off.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d whisper in the dead of night, rising first to change the nappy before passing him to me, waiting patiently as I fed him, then tucking him back into his cot with infinite care.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d declare each evening, knotting an apron around his waist, coaxing our stubborn, picky toddler to eat another spoonful of porridge—turning every meal into an adventure.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d say, bundling little Ollie into his coat for a walk so I could shower in peace, steal half an hour just for myself.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d chuckle, settling our growing boy on his knee, spinning wild, rambling tales to keep him entertained, just to give me silence.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d sigh when Ollie struggled with maths, sitting at the kitchen table, explaining fractions for the hundredth time without losing patience.
“Mum needs a rest,” he’d murmur softly when Oliver, now a man, slipped in late from prom night, silently raiding the fridge.
Every time he said it, warmth flooded through me. My heart clenched, eyes stinging—not from sadness, but from sheer joy. I wanted time to freeze, to stay wrapped in that love forever.
Then came the third act. The day “Mum” in his mouth became “Gran.”
“Gran needs a rest!” He’d grin, scooping up our fussy grandson when the boy stayed over for the weekend, missing his parents. And then, just like before, he’d hum that same lullaby—only now for a different child.
“Gran needs a rest,” he’d wink, gathering fishing rods, leading our grandson and grown-up Oliver out to the pond.
“Gran needs a rest,” he’d say gently, handing the boy headphones so he’d turn down his tablet.
He never met our granddaughter. He left too soon, too quietly. The children took me in—didn’t want me alone in that empty house.
And then, the first time I held tiny Sophie, I broke. I sobbed. I could almost hear him, as if he were standing just behind me, whispering—
“Gran needs a rest…”
I even turned around. A foolish hope. What if?
Later, when night had settled, as I hovered between sleep and waking, a whisper floated from the living room. My grown son’s voice, soft but sure:
“Sleep, sweetheart, sleep. Mum needs a rest…”
I rose, nudged the door open, and there he was—rocking his daughter, humming that very same lullaby. The one his father once sang to him.
He’s gone now. But those words—“Mum needs a rest”—live on. In our son. In his children. In memory even time can’t steal.
