The House We Built

 

The kettle whistled softly, a familiar sound in the quiet rhythm of their morning. Margaret reached for it with practiced ease, pouring two cups of rooibos tea into mismatched mugs—his with a faded rugby logo, hers with a chip on the rim from a long-forgotten tumble.

John shuffled in, his slippers whispering against the tiled floor. He kissed her cheek, then sat down at the kitchen table, where the sunlight filtered through lace curtains and danced across the wood grain.

Outside, the garden was still—just a few stubborn marigolds clinging to life in the winter soil. The house was quieter these days, though not empty. Not since Liam came to live with them.

Two years had passed since the accident. Their youngest grandchild, barely five then, had lost both parents in a single, shattering moment. Margaret and John hadn’t hesitated. They’d folded him into their lives like a final, unexpected gift—one that came wrapped in grief and innocence.

Now, at seventy-three and seventy-five, they were parenting again. Not in the way they had with their own children, with the rush of youth and the chaos of careers. This time, it was slower. Softer. More deliberate.

But today was different. Today, they were packing.

The decision to move to the retirement village hadn’t come easily. The house held decades of memories: the height chart still pencilled on the pantry door, the creaky floorboard in the hallway, the echo of laughter from birthday parties long past. But the stairs were becoming a challenge, and the garden needed more tending than they could give.

Margaret wrapped a porcelain figurine in newspaper, her hands lingering. “Do you remember when we bought this?” she asked.

John nodded. “Our tenth anniversary. You said it looked like us—two old souls sitting on a bench.”

She smiled. “We weren’t old then.”

He reached for her hand. “We were just beginning.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that only comes after years of shared life. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

“I’ve been thinking,” John said finally, his voice low. “All these years, I’ve said ‘I love you.’ Every day. But it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.”

Margaret looked at him, her eyes soft. “I know what you mean.”

“It’s more than love,” he continued. “It’s… you’re the thread that’s held me together. Through the kids, through the loss, through this new chapter with Liam. You’re my compass. My home.”

She squeezed his hand. “And you’re mine.”

Later, as Liam came bounding in from the garden with muddy boots and a grin too wide for his face, they laughed and scolded and wiped up footprints. Life, even now, was full of mess and magic.

That evening, they sat on the stoep, watching the sun dip behind the hills. The boxes were stacked in the lounge, labeled and ready. The house they’d built was almost empty, but their hearts were full.

Margaret leaned her head on John’s shoulder. “Do you think we’ll be happy there?”

He kissed her forehead. “We’ve been happy everywhere, as long as we’re together.”

And with that, they watched the sky turn gold, holding hands like they had on their wedding day—two old souls on a bench, still beginning.