A Home for His Sons
Edward was the sort of man who could do anything he set his mind to. He built a house, raised two sons, and planted trees all over his land. By any measure, he had lived a life well spent.
The house he built with his own hands, within the city limits but in a quiet residential area. Over time, he installed gas heating, running water—every comfort of a modern flat, even a proper bathtub. Only his home was far roomier than any flat, without the nuisance of neighbors.
His wife, Elizabeth—a clever and lovely woman—managed everything: cooking, cleaning, tending the garden. Edward helped where he could. Their two sons, five years apart, grew up strong and happy. A life to cherish.
But then Elizabeth fell gravely ill and passed when the youngest was in his fourth year at school. Edward grieved long and hard, but he held himself together, never turning to drink. It was difficult without her, the household missing a woman’s touch. Yet remarrying never crossed his mind.
He and Elizabeth had always dreamed their boys would get a good education, make something of themselves. They’d done everything to make it happen. The eldest, Thomas, finished school and went to university. “Get married, and there’ll be a proper mistress in the house,” Edward would say. He was proud of Thomas. The younger, Richard, wasn’t one for books, but he helped his father with everything.
In his fourth year at university, Thomas did marry.
“Plenty of room here. I built this house for you both. What’s the sense in living in some cramped flat with neighbors stomping about? Here, you can turn the heating on whenever you like.” No matter how Edward tried to persuade them not to waste money on rented rooms, it was no use.
Emily, Thomas’s new wife, refused outright to live in a house in the suburbs, let alone with her father-in-law. And Thomas went along, smitten as he was. Edward sighed and let it be. Let them live as they pleased.
“At least you’ll bring your wife here, won’t you? Who else did I build it for?” Edward would ask Richard.
“Too soon to be thinking of marriage,” Richard would wave him off.
Come autumn, Edward would bottle preserves, setting aside half for Thomas. But his son rarely took them—Emily, he said, felt ashamed, not having lifted a finger to grow or pickle anything.
“I’m not giving them to strangers, but to my own boy. No shame in that. Take them, or I’ll be proper cross,” Edward would insist, shoving a heavy bag into his son’s hands. “Eat them, and I’ll give you more.”
Richard left school but had no mind for further studies, choosing instead to enlist.
One day, Thomas came to see his father. He circled the point, hesitant, clearly wrestling with something. Edward could see it—knew his son was struggling to speak. At last, he pressed him.
“Emily’s expecting. A boy,” Thomas said, watching for his father’s reaction.
Edward beamed, clapping him on the back.
“But that’s not why you’re here, is it? Out with it,” he urged.
“The baby will mean more expenses, and Emily’s going on maternity leave. We’ll struggle to afford the rent.”
“So move in here. Richard’s away, you won’t be in anyone’s way. Plenty of space, and if it’s not enough, we’ll build an extension. All the comforts, fresh air—perfect for a baby. Why even think twice?” Edward said eagerly.
“Emily won’t have it. How would we all live together? The baby crying, nappies hung all over the place. And when Richard comes back, gets married…? No, it wouldn’t work.”
“You’ve another plan, then?” Edward asked bluntly.
“Yes. Emily’s father suggested we split the cost of a flat. His colleague’s selling cheap—moving abroad.”
“How much?”
Thomas named the sum.
“Is that the whole price, or just my half?”
“Just yours,” Thomas admitted, hesitating.
“That’s all I’ve got. What about Richard? If he marries, if he wants to study… It’s not fair.”
“We’ll help him together. Please, Dad, this is a rare chance.”
Edward tossed all night, torn. No way to please both sons. Richard would be left short, but not homeless. Perhaps his wife would be more agreeable, would take over the house.
By morning, he’d agreed. Thomas bought the flat, invited Edward to see it.
Edward disliked it—cramped after his spacious house, the kitchen tiny. But his son-in-law said young couples ought to have their own place. Maybe he was right. Edward held his tongue, hoping at least Richard might stay.
When Richard returned from service, he found work as a lorry driver, earning well.
“What’s the point of Thomas’s degree?” he’d say. “Barely makes ends meet.”
A year later, Richard brought home a wife—plain but practical. Edward was delighted. Hannah kept house well, though she’d no taste for gardening.
Retired, Edward threw himself into his plot. A neighbor often asked for help—fixing things, digging. He had golden hands. And she repaid him with pies and stews.
One evening, he stayed. Fixed up her house neat as a pin. Their combined gardens flourished, even yielding enough to sell.
“It’s not proper, living like this,” he said one day, proposing. She refused. She had a daughter, feared he’d claim her house.
“I’ve my own. I’ll sign any paper you like,” he insisted.
“Still, why risk it? We’re not young—no need for marriage.”
He didn’t press. They lived well together—until she passed suddenly.
Her daughter came for the funeral, then swiftly asked Edward to leave.
Back home, he worked himself ragged, grieving. Then came the stroke. He recovered, but the garden was left to weeds.
He’d hoped to dandle grandchildren. Thomas had two now, but they lived apart. Richard and Hannah remained childless. When Edward returned, they weren’t pleased. Both earned well, saved up, bought a flat, and moved out.
Edward was devastated. Had he built his home for nothing?
Then came the second stroke. He could still care for himself, but his mind began to slip.
The brothers met to decide his fate. Thomas had two children and a cramped flat. The duty fell to Richard—no children, more space.
“Sell the house, split the money. Buy bigger flats, take turns with Dad,” Thomas suggested.
Richard agreed. He bought a two-bedroom, moved Edward in. But the old man worsened—leaving taps running, spoiling food.
Hannah, worn out, begged Richard to act. “There are homes for people like him.”
“With living children, sending our father to a workhouse? It’s not right.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
Richard spoke to Thomas, who reneged. “Moving him would kill him.”
Drinking more, Richard finally arranged the paperwork. The car waited below.
He found Edward in tears. His heart twisted—sending his own father away.
“Time to go,” he muttered, leading him out.
At the stairs, Edward paused, his gaze suddenly clear. Richard’s chest ached—was he doing the right thing?
Then Edward sagged against him, eyes rolling back. Richard barely caught him before he hit the floor.
At the wake, Thomas praised their father—gone swiftly, on his feet till the end.
Richard never shook the guilt. His marriage crumbled. He blamed no one, least of all Hannah.
Some condemned both brothers. Those who’d cared for the elderly understood—it had fallen to Richard and his wife, and the choice had broken them.
Why do children from the same home turn out so different?
None know what old age brings. Lucky those whose parents keep their wits. And heaven spare us from becoming burdens to our own.
