My parents shared a kind of love most people only dream about. It wasnt flashy, it wasnt loud, it wasnt showyit was deep, steady, genuine. A love that springs not from passion but from trust, warmth and respect. It ran with them from their first meeting right up to the day my father, completely frail, slipped quietly away at the age of eighty.
My mother can still recall every little detail of their years together. How he would bring home his favourite Yorkshire bonbons from his trips, knowing she saved each one for her tea. How he hunted down at the market the specific cottage cheese she adored, because any other just isnt the same. How, in the middle of an ordinary workday, hed arrange for a stranger to deliver a bunch of flowers to herno reason at all, just to remind her: I love you.
They lived in a tiny village on the edge of a forest in the Cotswolds. There were no restaurants or florists nearby, so my dad gave my mum what grew right outside the gate: lilyofthevalley, bluebells, daisies, cornflowers. Hed walk onto the meadow after a long shift, even when he was exhausted, and come home with a clasped bunch. He kept it up year after year, as long as his legs would carry him. And when illness finally nailed him to the bed, my mother went out herself, plucked the blossoms and laid them beside him.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay true beauty. There were no grand gestures, no expensive gifts, no booming declarationsjust tiny acts full of meaning. Their feelings showed in every glance, in the way my mother would tug his scarf into place, in the way he offered his hand even when she could have managed on her own.
One summer, my father forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. To make light of it, he handed her a bouquet of potato flowers. My mother laughed until tears streamed down her face and later kept saying it was the warmest gift shed ever received, because it held everythingcare, tenderness and a dash of childlike spontaneity that she adored.
I also remember a story Mum told often. She went off to a training course in another town, leaving my dad at home with the children. A few days later he asked the neighbour to look after us, then slipped away quietly to visit herjust for two days, to catch a show at the local theatre and stroll the evening streets. In his eyes shone the same light that had flickered when he first asked her out.
Their love lived in deeds, not words. In the morning cups of tea he brought to her bedside. In their walks down to the river, where theyd sit on the bank and listen to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, when they would together watch the ice melt from the stream. In the way they understood each other without explanation, without demand, simply by feeling it in their hearts.
Whenever my father returned from a work trip, Mother always knew exactly when hed arrive. Shed say, Hell be here today, and never be wrong. Shed wait for him even when he tried to surprise her. He, in turn, left her short notes on scrap paper: Love you. Kiss. George. Those simple, sincere words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life wasnt perfectthere were hardships, squabbles, lean times, illnesses. But they never lost the core truth: they were a team. Their love needed no proof, because it simply was.
So when anyone claims true love doesnt exist, that its just a film or a novels 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 the love they share grows, changes, yet never dies.
I saw it in my mothers eyes today as she placed a small vase of fresh blossoms beside my fathers photograph. In that single gesture lies an entire lifetime. Their love storyreal, unadorned, and true.
