Dear Diary,
We love you, son, but please dont come back.
Thats what Harold and I whispered to each other when Andrew called to say hed be stopping over.
Harold and I have lived our whole lives in the same little cottage on the edge of Warwickshire, a house as weathered as we are. Weve never wanted to move, even though the roof has seen better days. In the evenings we sit by the fire and reminisce about the happy moments that have dotted our years. Our children have grown up and started families of their own. Emily, our daughter, lives in the neighboring village of Alderton and visits us often, and the grandchildren keep the house lively. Our son, however, moved to London five years ago and rarely comes home; work and other commitments have kept him away, and he usually spends his holidays abroad. Earlier this week Andrew rang, announcing that he would finally make the journey back.
The news lifted our spirits. Harold bolted off on his old bicycle to fetch groceries, while I began planning a hearty Sunday roast to delight my beloved son. We started counting down the days until Andrews arrival. Hed recently remarried; his first wife preferred the outdoors and they divorced amicably. They have no children together, and now he is trying to stitch together a new life.
Andrew pulled into the drive in his black Ford Fiesta just as dusk fell. He ate a quick supper and went straight to bed. Harold and I settled quietly beside him, grateful just to have him in the room; the long trip had left him exhausted, so there wasnt much conversation.
Harold whispered, Our lad will get a proper nights sleep, and tomorrow he can help us chop firewood, clear out the manure from the stable, fetch a fir for the garden and dress the house as we used to for Christmas. We havent put up a tree in years.
I added, And we still need to mend the floorboards in the pantry before they give way.
Harold retired to his armchair, but I could not bear to leave my boys side. I smoothed his blanket and fluffed his pillow. At first light I lit the coal stove so the house would be warm when he awoke. I also set about baking a Victoria sponge. Around midday Andrew sat up, still halfasleep, and confessed he hadnt slept that deeply in ages. After breakfast he switched on the telly and settled in to watch a film.
I asked, Son, could you give your father a hand with the wood?
He replied, Mum, Im only here for a few days; let Dad tend the sauna instead.
So Harold and I hauled water from the well for the sauna in silence.
After lunch Harold called, The stable needs clearing. Youre young and strongcould you do it, please?
Andrew snapped back, What do you think, Dad? Ive come up here to rest, not to be put to work.
Later, after the sauna, Andrew opened the bottle of whisky hed brought and began complaining about his life. He spoke of his spacious flat with designer furniture, his pedigree Labrador, the women hed dated, and how his job had become a grind. The whole day wore us thin, yet he never offered a sincere apology. He bragged, then whined, then muttered about his woes.
Exhausted, we went to bed. Andrew, feeling slighted, announced he would go to his sisters house because we were boring. I tried to stop him from driving, snatching the car keys, and he threatened to slam the doors before retreating to his room, cranking the television volume to its limit. We lay there, unable to fall asleep, until Harold noticed Andrew already snoring. I switched off the set and finally drifted off.
The next morning Andrew walked in the nearby woods, shivered, and hurried home to the warmth of a mug of tea on the settee. He seemed to have forgotten yesterdays arguments, while I suffered a pounding headache all day.
We packed a bag of homemade jams, oatcakes and a tin of shortbread for him to take back to London. He accepted it gratefully. Thats a lot youve put in the bag! My wife will love these. Ive forgotten New Years gifts, but thats no big deal; Ill bring them next time, he said.
Tears welled in my eyes as I whispered, Dont come back, son. We love you and worry for you, but youre welcome to stay on your own sofa at home where the television is bigger and the comforts are yours.
Andrew realised hed hurt us, yet he didnt know what to say. He waved, got into his car and drove back to the city, where the familiar hustle awaited.
Tonight, as I write this, I see the truth clearly: family ties are fragile threads; we must tend them with patience and love, not with demands or resentment. That is the lesson I carry forward.
