**Diary Entry**
My brother and I are grown men now, each with our own families, but our seventy-year-old father remains the heart of ours. He lives alone in a small house on the outskirts of town. Mum’s no longer with us, and we—my brother George and I—do everything we can to keep him from feeling lonely, making sure he’s always cared for. My name’s William, and my brother’s George. Despite busy schedules, we both make a point to visit him regularly, even when work leaves us worn out.
Every Sunday, I drop by Dad’s place. I cook meals to last him a few days: roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, steamed vegetables, porridge. He always jokes that my cooking’s better than a London bistro’s—though I know he’s just being kind. While things simmer, I tidy up, checking the house stays in order. Dad’s name is Henry Wilson. He loves reminiscing about his youth, retelling the same stories I’ve heard a hundred times. Still, I listen—those tales are his life, and I love seeing his eyes light up when he shares them.
George visits on Wednesdays. He lives a bit farther away, but he always makes time. My brother handles the odd jobs—fixing the leaky tap, mowing the lawn, shovelling snow in winter. Dad tries to help, but we convince him to relax. “You lot never let me get bored,” he laughs. Often, George brings his seven-year-old daughter, Emily. She adores her grandad, and he dotes on her right back—reading her fairy tales, teaching her chess. Those moments are pure joy for him.
Dad’s active for his age. He keeps a small garden, growing tomatoes, cucumbers, and herbs. Says tending the soil keeps him sharp. He enjoys reading the paper and watching old films. Sometimes George and I persuade him to join us for a walk or a visit, but usually he refuses: “I’m quite content here.” Still, we know our visits matter. He’d never say it outright, but his smile says enough.
George and I are very different, but in one way we’re identical—we treasure our father. He’s not just our dad; he’s our role model. I remember how he taught us to work hard, be honest, and respect others. Even now, as fathers ourselves, we still look up to him. After Mum passed, he grew quieter. But we try to fill that gap with love. Sometimes I wonder how pleased she’d be, seeing how we care for him.
My wife, Margaret, adores Dad too. She often sends him homemade pies or jams. He always thanks her, teasing that we’ve “spoiled him rotten.” We’ve two children—twelve-year-old James and nine-year-old Lily—who love visiting Grandpa. James helps in the garden, while Lily hangs on every word of his stories. Those visits bind us all together.
Lately, I’ve been thinking how fast time flies. Dad isn’t as spry as he once was, but his spirit’s strong. George and I agreed long ago—we’ll never leave him alone. If needed, we’ll take him in or hire help. But for now, he wants his independence, and we respect that. The important thing is he knows we’re here.
Our Sunday and Wednesday visits have become tradition. It’s not just about meals or chores—it’s our way of telling Dad he matters. And when I see him smile, hugging Emily or thanking me for supper, I realise these moments are priceless. Life’s taught me to cherish family, and I’m grateful we’ve still got Dad, keeping us all close.
