My brother and I are grown men now, each with families of our own, but our seventy-year-old father remains the heart of our lives. He lives alone in a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Our mother is gone, and my brother Edward and I do everything we can to keep him from feeling lonely, ensuring he’s always surrounded by love and care. My name is James, and my brother is Edward. Though our days are busy, we make time to see him regularly, even when work and life leave us drained.
Every Sunday, I visit Dad. I cook meals to last him the week—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, stewed vegetables, and porridge. He always jokes that my cooking is better than any restaurant’s, though I know he’s just trying to make me smile. While the food simmers, I tidy the house and check everything’s in order. His name is William Thompson. He loves reminiscing about his youth, retelling the same stories I’ve heard a hundred times. But I listen anyway—because those tales are his life, and I love the way his eyes light up when he remembers.
Edward visits on Wednesdays. He lives farther away but never misses a week. My brother handles the odd jobs—fixing the tap, mowing the lawn, clearing snow in winter. Dad tries to help, but we insist he rests. “You two won’t let me get bored,” he chuckles. Often, Edward brings his seven-year-old daughter, Emily. She adores her grandad, and he dotes on her—telling her fairy tales and teaching her chess. Those moments are pure joy for him.
Dad’s always been active for his age. He keeps a small garden, growing tomatoes, cucumbers, and herbs. He says working the soil keeps him strong. He reads the papers, watches old films. Sometimes, Edward and I persuade him to join us for a walk or a visit, but he usually refuses. “I’m quite happy here,” he says. Still, we know our visits mean everything. He’d never say it outright, but his smile speaks louder than words.
Edward and I are different in many ways, but we share one thing—our deep respect for Dad. He’s not just our father; he’s our guiding star. I remember how he taught us the value of hard work, honesty, and kindness. Even now, as fathers ourselves, we still look up to him. After Mum passed, he grew quieter. But we try to fill that silence with our love. Sometimes I wonder how pleased she’d be, watching us care for him.
My wife, Charlotte, adores Dad too. She often bakes him pies or jars preserves. He teases that we’ve spoiled him. We’ve two children—twelve-year-old Oliver, who helps in the garden, and nine-year-old Lily, who hangs on Grandad’s every word. Those visits knit our family together.
Time flies. Dad isn’t as spry as he once was, but his spirit’s unbroken. Edward and I have sworn never to leave him alone. If needed, we’ll bring him home or hire a carer. But for now, we respect his wish to stay independent. The important thing is he knows we’re here.
Our Sunday and Wednesday visits are more than routine—they’re how we show him he’s cherished. When I see his smile, when he hugs Emily or thanks me for supper, I know these moments are priceless. Life’s taught me to treasure family, and I’m grateful fate gave us a father who still binds us all.
