My parents had that kind of love most people only dream about. Not flashy, not noisy, not for show but deep, calm and genuine. The sort that grows from trust, warmth and respect. It lasted them a lifetime, from their first meeting right up to the day Dad, already frail, quietly slipped away at eighty.
Mum still remembers every tiny detail of their years together. How hed bring her favourite chocolates from his trips to York, knowing she saved them for a cuppa. How hed hunt at the market for that specific farmhouse cheese she adored, because any other just isnt right. How, in the middle of a normal workday, hed arrange for someone to deliver a bouquet to her no reason, just to say, I love you.
They lived in a little village by the woods, a place with no restaurants or flower shops. So Dad gave Mum what grew right beside them: lilyofthevalley, cornflowers, daisies, poppies. After his shift hed walk out to the meadow, even when exhausted, and come back with a bunch in his hand. He kept doing that year after year as long as he could walk. And when illness left him in bed, Mum went out into the garden herself, picking flowers to place beside him.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay real beauty. No grand gestures, no pricey gifts, no loud declarations just tiny things packed with meaning. Their feelings showed up in every glance, in the way Mum would straighten his scarf, in the way hed offer his arm even when she could manage on her own.
One summer Dad forgot it was their wedding anniversary. He joked and handed her a bouquet of potato blossoms. Mum laughed until she cried and later kept saying it was the warmest gift shed ever received, because it had everything care, tenderness and a dash of childlike honesty she loved.
I also remember a story Mum would tell often. She went off to a training course in another city, and Dad stayed home with us kids. After a few days he asked the neighbour for a favour and slipped away quietly just to spend two days together, see a play and stroll the evening streets. In his eyes there was the same sparkle hed had the night he first asked her out.
Their love lived in deeds, not words. In the morning tea hed bring to her in bed. In their walks to the river, sitting on the bank listening to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, when theyd watch the ice melt from the water. In how they understood each other silently no explanations, no demands, just feeling it in their hearts.
When Dad returned from a business trip, Mum always knew exactly when hed arrive. Shed say, Hell be here today, and she never missed it. Shed wait for him even when he was trying to surprise her. He, in turn, left short notes on scraps of paper: Love you. Kiss. John. Those simple, sincere words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life wasnt perfect there were hard times, arguments, money worries, sickness. But they never forgot the core: they were a team. Their love needed no proof because it simply existed.
So when someone says true love is a fairytale, a Hollywood invention, I just smile. Ive seen it with my own eyes. Ive seen two people stay side by side all their lives not out of habit or duty, but because the love grew, changed, but never faded.
I saw it in Mums eyes today as she placed a tiny vase of fresh flowers by Dads photo. In that small act is a whole life. Their love story. Real. Unadorned.
