15September2025
Today I found myself drifting back through the years of my parents marriage, the kind of love most people only ever dream about. It wasnt flashy or boisterous, not the sort that makes heads turnrather, it was deep, steady, and utterly sincere. It sprang not from sudden passion but from mutual trust, warmth, and respect. That love carried them from their first shy meetings right up to the very last day when my father, already frail, slipped quietly away at the age of eighty.
Mum, now Eleanor Whitaker, can still recall every tiny detail of their life together. She remembers how Arthur would bring home his favourite Yorkish sweets from his train trips, knowing she saved each one for her afternoon tea. She recalls the way he hunted the local market for the specific farmhouse cheese she adored, because the other ones just arent the same. And on an ordinary workday he would arrange for a bouquet to be delivered to herno special occasion, simply to whisper, I love you, through the scent of fresh flowers.
They lived in a modest Cotswold cottage on the edge of a dense woodland. There were no restaurants or florists nearby, so Arthur gave Eleanor what grew right outside their doorstep: lily-of-the-valley, cornflowers, daisies, and bluebells. After a long days labour he would trudge out to the meadow, even when his feet ached, and return with a handful of blossoms. He kept up that ritual year after year, as long as his legs would carry him. When illness finally chained him to the bed, Eleanor would step into the garden herself, plucking flowers to lay beside his pillow.
Their love was simple, yet in that simplicity lay true beauty. There were no grand gestures, expensive presents, or loud declarationsjust small acts packed with meaning. Their affection shone in every glance, in the way Eleanor adjusted his scarf, in the gentle hand he offered her even when she could have managed on her own.
One summer, Arthur completely forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. In a cheeky attempt to make up for it, he presented her with a bouquet of potato blossoms. Eleanor laughed until tears streamed down her face, later insisting it was the warmest gift shed ever received. In those humble blooms she found everythingcare, tenderness, and a dash of childlike spontaneity that endeared her to him all the over.
I also remember a story Mum liked to tell. She went off for a teaching course in another town, leaving Arthur at home with the children. A few days later he asked the neighbour to lend a hand and slipped away for a quiet weekend with herto the theatre, to a stroll along the evening lanes. In his eyes there burned the same bright light that had first sparked when he asked her out for a walk in the village green.
Their love lived not in words but in deeds. In the steaming mugs of tea he carried to her in bed each morning. In their walks along the River Thames, sitting on the bank and listening to the chorus of crickets. In the patient waiting for spring, when together they watched the ice melt from the pond. In the unspoken understanding that needed no explanations, no demandsjust a feeling sensed straight from the heart.
Whenever Arthur returned from a work trip, Mum always knew exactly which day he would arrive. Shed say, Hell be here today, and never be wrong. She waited for him even when he tried to surprise her. In turn, he left tiny notes on scraps of paper: Love you. Kiss. Arthur. Those simple, honest words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life wasnt perfectthere were hard times, arguments, stretches of pennypinching, bouts of illness. Yet they never lost sight of the core truth: they were a team. Their love needed no proof because it simply existed.
So when people claim true love is a myth, a plot device from movies or novels, I just smile. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have watched two people stay side by side all their livesnot out of habit or obligation, but because love kept growing, changing, yet never fading.
I saw it today in Mums eyes as she set a small vase of fresh daisies beside my fathers photograph. That single gesture holds an entire lifetime. Their love storygenuine, unadorned, and as enduring as the English countrysideremains a quiet testament to what real love looks like.
