My parents shared a kind of love most people only daydream about. It wasnt flashy, loud or showy it was deep, quiet and completely sincere. It grew not from wild passion but from trust, warmth and respect. That love walked with them from their very first meeting right up to the last day when Father, already frail, slipped away at the age of eighty.
Mother still recalls every tiny detail of their years together. How he would bring back his favourite York peppermint sweets from his trips, knowing she saved each one for her tea. How he hunted the market for that particular WestCountry cheddar she adored, because any other just isnt the same. How, on an ordinary workday, he would arrange for a stranger to deliver a bouquet to her no reason needed, just a reminder that I love you.
They lived in a little Cotswold hamlet on the edge of a forest. There were no restaurants or fancy flower shops nearby, so Dad gave Mum what grew right next door: bluebells, poppies, daisies and cornflowers. He would stroll onto the meadow after a shift, even when exhausted, and return with a bunch tucked under his arm. He kept it up every year while he could still walk. And when illness finally pinned him to the bed, Mum herself went out into the garden and plucked flowers to place by his pillow.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay its real charm. There were no grand gestures, expensive presents or booming declarations just little things full of meaning. Their feeling showed up in every glance, in the way Mum adjusted his scarf, in the way he offered her his hand even when she could easily manage on her own.
One summer, Dad forgot it was their wedding anniversary. To tease her, he presented a bouquet made of potato blossoms. Mum laughed until she cried and later kept insisting it was the warmest gift shed ever received, because it contained everything care, tenderness and a dash of childlike spontaneity she adored.
I also remember a story Mum liked to tell. She went off to a teaching course in another city, leaving Dad at home with the kids. A few days later he asked the neighbour to lend a hand and then slipped quietly over to her house, just to spend two evenings together, catch a matinee at the local theatre and wander the twilight streets. In his eyes shone the same light that had once brightened when he first asked her out.
Their love lived in actions, not words. In the earlymorning mugs of tea he carried to her in bed. In leisurely walks to the river, where they sat on the bank and listened to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, when they both popped out to watch the ice melt from the pond. In the way they understood each other without explanations or demands, just by feeling it in their hearts.
Whenever Dad returned from a work trip, Mum always knew exactly when he would arrive. Shed say, Hell be here today, and she never missed him. She waited for him even when he tried to surprise her. In turn, he left 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 arguments, leantimes, illnesses and the occasional emptypurse moment. Yet they never forgot the main thing: they were a team. Their love needed no proof because it simply existed.
So when anyone claims true love is a Hollywood myth, I just smile. Ive seen it with my own eyes. Ive seen two people stay sidebyside all their lives not out of habit or duty, but because a love that grows, shifts, and never really fades can keep you both warm.
I saw it in Mums eyes this morning as she placed a tiny vase of fresh flowers beside Dads photograph. In that small gesture sits an entire lifetime. Their love story genuine, unadorned, and a little bit cheeky.
