My parents had that kind of love most people only dream about. Not flashy, not loud, not showy just deep, steady and sincere. It didnt spring from wild passion but from trust, warmth and respect. It lasted them a lifetime, from their first meeting right up to the day Dad, already frail, slipped quietly away at eighty.
Mum still clings to every tiny detail of their years together. How he would bring home his favourite Harrogate bonbons after a business trip, knowing she saved each one for her tea. How he hunted the market for that particular West Country cheddar she adored, because any other just isnt right. How, on an ordinary Tuesday, hed arrange with a neighbour to deliver a bunch of flowers to her no occasion, just to whisper, I love you.
They lived in a little hamlet on the edge of the Chilterns. There were no restaurants or fancy florists nearby, so Dad gifted Mum what grew wild right outside their gate: lilies of the valley, daisies, poppies and cornflowers. He would stroll onto the meadow after a long day, even when his legs ached, and come back with a fresh bouquet in hand. He kept at it year after year, as long as his feet would carry him. When illness finally glued him to the bed, Mum ventured into the garden herself, plucking blossoms to lay beside him.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay its real beauty. No grand gestures, no pricey presents, no booming declarations only the little things brimming with meaning. Their feelings were evident in every glance, in the way Mum tucked a scarf around his neck, in the way he offered his hand even when she could have done it herself.
One summer, Dad forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. In a cheeky mood he presented her with a bouquet of potato flowers. Mum laughed until she cried, later insisting it was the warmest gift shed ever received, because it contained everything care, tenderness and a pinch of childlike honesty she loved so much.
I also remember a story Mum would tell over and over. She had gone off to a teaching course in Manchester, leaving Dad at home with the kids. A few days later he asked the neighbour to look after the garden, then slipped out quietly to spend two evenings with her a trip to the local theatre, a wander down the lanternlit lanes. In his eyes shone the same spark that had lit up when he first asked Mum out.
Their love lived in actions, not words. In the morning tea hed bring to her bedside. In the lazy walks along the River Ouse, sitting on the bank and listening to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, when they both stepped outside to watch the ice melt from the pond. In the unspoken understanding that needed no explanations, no demands, just a feeling in the heart.
Whenever Dad returned from a work trip, Mum could tell the exact moment hed walk through the door. Shed say, Hell be here today, and never be wrong. She waited for him even when he tried to pull a surprise. In return, he left her short notes on scraps of paper:
Love you. Kiss. Arthur.
Those simple, honest words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life wasnt perfect there were hard times, arguments, months with an empty wallet, bouts of illness. 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 all their lives not out of habit or duty, but because love, like a welltended garden, grows, changes, yet never fades.
I saw it in Mums eyes today as she placed a tiny vase of fresh blossoms beside Dads photograph. In that small gesture lay an entire lifetime. Their love story genuine, unadorned, and as real as the English countryside itself.
