My parents had that kind of love most people only dream about. It wasnt flashy or loud, it wasnt a grand romance it was deep, calm and genuine. It grew not from passion alone but from trust, warmth and respect. It stayed with them right from their first meeting right up to the day Dad, already frail, quietly slipped away at eighty.
Mum still remembers every little detail from their years together. How hed bring back his favourite Yorkshire bonbons from his trips, knowing she saved each one for a cuppa. How hed hunt the market for that particular farmhouse cheese she loved, because any other just isnt the same. And how, on an ordinary workday, hed arrange for someone to hand her a bouquet for no reason other than to say, I love you.
They lived in a tiny Cotswold village by the woods. There were no fancy restaurants or flower shops nearby, so Dad gave Mum what grew right next door lilies of the valley, cornflowers, daisies, poppies. Hed walk out to the meadow after his shift, even when he was knackered, and come back with a bunch in his hand. He kept doing that every year, as long as his legs would carry him. And when illness pinned him to the bed, Mum herself would wander out into the garden and pick the blossoms to lay beside him.
Their love was plain, and that plainness held the real beauty. No big gestures, no pricey presents, no thunderous words just tiny things packed with meaning. You could feel it in every glance, in the way Mum would tug his scarf straight, in the way hed offer his arm even when she could have managed on her own.
One summer, Dad completely forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. He cracked a joke and handed her a bouquet of potatoes. 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 spontaneity she adored.
I also remember a story Mum used to tell. Shed gone off to a training course in Bristol, leaving Dad at home with the kids. A few days later he asked the neighbour to look after everything and slipped away quietly to spend a couple of evenings with her just to go to the local theatre and stroll the twilight streets. In his eyes the same light shone that had once sparked when he first asked her out.
Their love lived in actions, not in words. In the morning tea hed bring to her bedside. In the walks by the River Thames where theyd sit on the bank and listen to crickets. In the quiet waiting for spring when theyd watch the ice melt together. In the way they understood each other without explanations or demands, just feeling it with their hearts.
Whenever Dad returned from a business trip, Mum always knew exactly when hed be back. Shed say, Hell be here today, and she was never wrong. Shed wait for him even when he tried to surprise her. And hed leave short notes on scrap paper: Love you. Kiss. Tom. Those simple, sincere words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Life wasnt perfect there were arguments, lean times, illnesses. But they never lost sight of the main thing: they were a team. Their love didnt need proof because it simply existed.
So when anyone claims true love is just a fairytale from movies or novels, 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 they share keeps growing, shifting, yet never fading.
I saw it in Mums eyes today as she placed a small vase of fresh flowers by Dads photograph. In that simple gesture lies an entire lifetime. Their story real, unadorned, and forever.
