**Diary Entry**
*We don’t want to live here anymore, son. We’re going back home. We just don’t have the strength for this.* My parents gave up city comforts for their old village life.
*Your parents have lost the plot, James! Anyone else would kill for what they’ve got!* My wife, Emily, threw her hands up in frustration. *A four-bedroom flat, meals on demand, everything at their fingertips. And still, nothing’s ever good enough for them!*
*Watch your tone, Em,* I muttered, rubbing my temple.
*But it’s the truth! They won’t learn how to use the appliances, barely step outside, and always seem miserable. Why can’t they just be grateful?*
I didn’t answer. Truth was, I didn’t understand it either. They’d changed. Once lively, cheerful, full of stories—now they drifted through the flat like shadows. I’d brought them to London, pulled them from that tiny Cotswold village, bought them the best of everything. And still, all I saw in their eyes was sadness. Had I made a mistake?
The move had been a long time coming. I’d persuaded them, promised them the world. They never sold the cottage—didn’t need to, with my salary. But the day we arrived, some part of them stayed behind, under those old oak trees.
George and Margaret never settled in. They missed the village square, neighbours who’d drop by *for a cuppa*, their garden, the smell of rain on soil. Here, it was strangers, locked doors, speeding cars, and endless noise. The car I bought Dad? He refused to drive it—too many signs, too many turns, too many unfamiliar streets.
*How’s Mrs. Wilkins these days?* Mum sighed. *Her roses must be lovely after all this rain… I never did make blackberry jam this year.*
*Hush now, love,* Dad whispered, wiping his eyes. *I see our cottage in my dreams every night. Everything’s so familiar there. Here… here we don’t belong.*
*We’re not ungrateful, son,* Dad said softly when I got home that evening. *But this isn’t us. We can’t stay.*
*When was the last time you even saw the old place?* Dad added. *It’s just down the road, but you’re always too busy. And Emily—she rolls her eyes whenever I mention pruning the roses.*
I looked at them—their tired faces, their hands still rough from years of hard, honest work. I didn’t get it. How could I give them so much, and still, they just wanted to leave?
But I didn’t argue.
*Alright,* I said. *I’ll help you move next week. If it’s what you want, I respect that.*
*Tomorrow?* Mum asked hopefully. *Maybe you could take us tomorrow?*
*Tomorrow it is,* I nodded.
I couldn’t fully understand. I’d seen that village as suffocating. But for them? That’s where they could breathe. Maybe home wasn’t about space and comfort, but memories—the scent of earth, the sound of birds at dawn.
That evening, they came alive. Packing with smiles, planning their vegetable patch, listing who they’d invite over first. They stayed up chatting over tea, whispering like newlyweds.
And then I realised—sometimes love isn’t about flats and gadgets. It’s letting them go where their hearts lead.
Because home isn’t an address. It’s where you’re loved. Where you belong.
