“We don’t want to stay here, son. We’re going back home. We just don’t have the strength for this anymore,” his parents said, turning their backs on city comforts for the sake of their old village.
“Your parents have lost their marbles, haven’t they, Oliver?” Natalie, his wife, snapped in irritation. “Honestly, who wouldn’t dream of a place like this? A four-bedroom flat, meals sorted, everything at hand—and still they’re never happy!”
“Watch your tone, Natalie,” Oliver muttered darkly.
“But it’s the truth! They refuse to learn how to use the gadgets, don’t step outside, always moaning about something. Why can’t they just be grateful?”
Oliver stayed silent. He didn’t have an answer. His parents *had* changed. Once lively, cheerful, bright—now they drifted through the flat like shadows. He’d brought them here, pulled them from their sleepy village, given them the best of everything—and what was the result? Nothing but sorrow in their eyes and silence. Had he made a mistake?
The move from the countryside had been delayed for ages. Oliver had begged, promised them the moon. His parents hadn’t sold their cottage—not that they needed to, he had the money. In the end, they came, but their hearts, it seemed, never left that old home beneath the white birches.
Arthur and Margaret never settled. They missed the bustle of the village, neighbors dropping by for tea, the vegetable patch, the smell of earth after rain. Here, it was strangers, locked doors, speeding cars, endless noise. Even the car Oliver had bought Arthur sat unused—too many signs, turns, unfamiliar streets.
“How are our old neighbors, do you think?” Margaret sighed. “Bet the cabbages came up nicely this year, with all the rain… Never did get to make my blackberry jam, did I?”
“Enough, love, you’ll break my heart,” Arthur whispered, wiping his eyes. “I dream of home every night. Everything there’s *ours*. Here… here we don’t belong.”
“We never meant to upset you, son,” Arthur went on. “We know you tried… but this isn’t for us. We can’t live like this.”
“When’s the last time you even saw the old place?” Arthur added. “It’s just across the way, but you never have time. And your Natalie—she rolls her eyes every time I mention compost!”
Just then, Oliver walked in, arms full of shopping bags. He took one look at their faces and knew—it was time to talk properly.
“Mum, Dad, what’s going on?”
“Son… we’re leaving,” Arthur said quietly. “Going back home. We can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. We don’t belong here. There, we’ve got the cottage, the garden, the birch in the yard. This place is nice, comfortable… but it’s not *us*.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He studied their tired faces, their hands—hands that knew soil and honest work. He didn’t understand how they could walk away from everything he’d given them, but he wouldn’t fight it.
“Alright. I’ll help you move back next week. It’s your choice—I won’t stand in your way.”
“What about tomorrow?” Margaret asked softly. “Could you find time then?”
“Tomorrow it is,” he nodded.
He couldn’t fully grasp it. *He’d* felt suffocated in that village. Yet there, his parents breathed freely. Was it true, then—home wasn’t walls and comforts, but memories, scents, the hush of fields and birdsong?
That evening, Arthur and Margaret came alive again. Packing with smiles, whispering plans for turnips and who’d visit first. They stayed up all night over tea, giggling like sweethearts.
And Oliver finally understood: love wasn’t always about flats and gadgets. Sometimes, it was just letting them go where their hearts lived. After all, home isn’t an address. It’s where you’re loved and waited for.
