Me and my brother are all grown up now, but Dad’s still the heart of our family.
We’re both proper adults with our own families, but our 70-year-old dad holds a special place in our lives. He lives alone in a little cottage on the outskirts of town. Mum’s no longer with us, so me and Jack do everything we can to make sure Dad never feels lonely—always keeping him company and looking after him. My name’s William, and my brother’s Jack. Even though we’re busy, we both make time to visit him regularly—even if work sometimes takes it out of us.
I pop round to Dad’s every Sunday. I cook him meals for the week—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, stews, the lot. He always jokes that my cooking’s better than a restaurant’s, but I know he’s just being nice. While everything’s bubbling away, I tidy up for him, check everything’s in order. Dad’s name’s Harold, but everyone calls him Harry. He loves reminiscing about the old days, telling the same stories I’ve heard a hundred times. But I never mind—those tales are his life, and I love seeing his eyes light up when he talks about the past.
Jack visits on Wednesdays. He lives a bit further out, but he always makes it. He sorts out the odd jobs—fixing the leaky tap, mowing the lawn, clearing snow in winter. Dad tries to help, but me and Jack always tell him to put his feet up. “You lot keep me on my toes,” he laughs. Often, Jack brings his eight-year-old daughter, Lily. She adores her grandad, and he dotes on her—reading her stories, teaching her chess. Those moments? They mean the world to him.
Dad’s still full of life, despite his age. He’s got a little garden patch where he grows tomatoes, cucumbers, all sorts. Says working the soil keeps him spry. Loves his newspapers, old war films. Sometimes me and Jack try to coax him out for a walk or to visit family, but he usually waves us off—”I’m grand right here.” But we know our visits matter. He’d never say it outright, but his smile says it all.
Me and Jack couldn’t be more different, but we agree on one thing—Dad’s everything to us. More than just a parent, he’s our role model. I remember him teaching us the value of hard work, honesty, respect. Even now, with kids of our own, his word still holds weight. After Mum passed, he grew quieter. But we try to fill that gap with love. Sometimes I wonder how chuffed she’d be, seeing how we look after him.
My wife, Emily, adores him too. She’s always sending over homemade pies or jams. Dad teases that we’ve “spoiled him rotten.” We’ve got two kids—twelve-year-old Oliver and nine-year-old Charlotte. They love seeing their grandad. Oliver helps him in the garden, and Charlotte hangs on his every story. Those visits keep us all close.
It hits me sometimes—how fast time flies. Dad’s not as sprightly as he used to be, but his spirit’s strong. Me and Jack have promised—he’ll never be alone. If needed, he’ll move in with one of us, or we’ll get help. But for now? He wants his independence, and we respect that. The important thing is he knows we’re here.
Those Sunday and Wednesday visits are tradition now. It’s not just about the chores or meals—it’s our way of showing Dad he’s loved. And when I see him grinning, hugging Lily, or thanking me for dinner, I know—these moments? They’re priceless. Life’s taught me family’s what matters, and I’m proper grateful Dad’s still here, keeping us all together.
