My parents shared a love that most people only dream of. It wasnt flashy, loud, or showy it was deep, calm and sincere. A love that grew not from passion alone but from trust, warmth and respect. It lasted their whole lives, from their first meeting until the day my father, already frail, quietly slipped away at eighty.
Mother still remembers every little detail of their years together. How he would bring home his favourite Harrogate toffee from business trips, knowing she saved each piece for her tea. How he hunted at the market for the particular cottage cheese she adored, because any other just isnt right. How, in the middle of an ordinary workday, he arranged for a stranger to deliver a bouquet to her no reason, just to remind her: I love you.
They lived in a tiny village by the woods, far from any restaurants or florists. So father gave mother what grew nearby: lilyofthevalley, primroses, daisies, cornflowers. He would walk out to the meadow after work, even when exhausted, and return with a handful of blossoms. He kept doing this year after year, as long as his legs would carry him. When illness finally pinned him to the bed, mother went into the garden herself and picked flowers to place by his side.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay its true beauty. There were no grand gestures, expensive presents, or booming declarations only tiny acts brimming with meaning. Their feelings were evident in every glance, in the way mother tucked his scarf tighter, in the way he offered his hand even when she could have done it herself.
One summer day, father forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. To make light of it, he handed her a bouquet of potato flowers. Mother laughed until tears streamed down her face and later said it was the warmest gift shed ever received, because it contained care, tenderness and a childlike honesty she loved so much.
I also recall a story mother told often. She went to a training course in Manchester, leaving father at home with the children. After a few days he asked the neighbour to lend a hand and slipped away quietly to spend two evenings with her a night at the local playhouse and a stroll down the lanternlit lane. In his eyes burned the same light that had shone when he first asked her out.
Their love lived in deeds, not words. In the morning tea he carried to her bedside. In the walks along the River Thames where they sat on the bank listening to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, watching the ice melt from the pond together. In the way they understood each other without explanations or demands, simply feeling with their hearts.
When father returned from a business trip, mother always knew exactly when 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 short notes on scrap paper: Love you. Kiss. James. Those simple, honest words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life was far from perfect there were hardships, arguments, lean times and illnesses. Yet they never lost the main point: they were a team. Their love needed no proof because it simply existed.
So when anyone claims true love is a myth, a Hollywood invention, I just smile. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have seen two people stay side by side for a lifetime not out of habit or duty, but because love, like a garden, grows, changes and never truly fades.
Today I watch my mother place a small vase of fresh flowers beside my fathers photograph. In that simple gesture I see an entire life. Their story is a genuine, unadorned love, and it reminds us that the smallest acts of kindness are the ones that keep a heart forever young.
