My parents shared a love that most people only dream of. It wasnt flashy, loud or showy it was deep, steady and sincere. It grew not from passion alone but from trust, warmth and respect. That love lasted them a lifetime, from their first meeting right up to the day my father, already very frail, quietly slipped away at the age of eighty.
Mother still recalls every tiny detail of their years together. How he would bring home her favourite Yorkshire biscuits after a weekend trip, knowing she saved a piece for her tea. How he hunted at the market for that particular cheddar 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 bouquet to her no particular reason, just to remind her: I love you.
They lived in a modest cottage on the edge of the Cotswolds. There were no restaurants or florists nearby, so John gave Margaret gifts that grew right beside them: lilyofthevalley, poppies, daisies, cornflowers. He would walk out to the meadow after a long shift, even when tired, and return with a bunch in his hand. He kept at it every year, as long as his legs held up. When illness finally pinned him to the bed, Margaret would go out into the garden herself, plucking flowers to lay at his pillow.
Their love was simple, and in that simplicity lay its true beauty. There were no grand gestures, expensive presents, or booming declarations only small things packed with meaning. Their feelings showed up in every glance, in the way Margaret would straighten his scarf, in the way he offered his arm even when she could have managed alone.
One summer, John forgot that it was their wedding anniversary. In a cheeky mood he handed her a bouquet of potato sprouts. Margaret burst out laughing until tears ran down her cheeks, and later she kept saying it was the warmest gift shed ever received it contained care, tenderness and a pinch of childlike spontaneity that she adored.
I also remember a story Margaret liked to tell. She went away for a teaching course in another city, leaving John at home with the kids. A few days later he asked the neighbour to watch the children, then slipped off quietly to spend two evenings with her a night at the local theatre and a stroll down the lanternlit streets. In his eyes the same spark glowed as the night he first asked her out.
Their love lived in deeds, not words. In the morning cups of tea he brought to her in bed. In their walks to the river, sitting on the bank listening to crickets. In the quiet anticipation of spring, when they would step outside together to watch the ice melt from the stream. In the way they understood each other without explanation, without demand, just by feeling with their hearts.
When John returned from a business trip, Margaret always knew the exact day he would arrive. Shed say, Hell be here today, and never be wrong. She waited for him even when he tried to surprise her. In turn, he left her little notes on scraps of paper: Love you. Kiss. John. Those simple, honest words meant more to her than any grand confession.
Their life wasnt perfect there were arguments, lean times, illnesses and money worries. Yet they never lost sight of 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 the love they share keeps growing, changing, yet never fading.
I saw it in my mothers eyes today as she placed a tiny vase of wildflowers beside my fathers photograph. In that small gesture lay an entire lifetime. Their love story genuine, unadorned, and as steady as the English countryside.
