“Mum needs a break”—those words echoed through our home every day from the moment our son was born… and long after.
Every evening, the moment he stepped through the door from work, he’d scrub his hands clean and head straight for our boy. Not even the scent of dinner or his crumpled copy of *The Telegraph* could pull him away. He’d lean over the crib, scoop up little Oliver, and—just like that—I’d fall in love with him all over again. With the man who wasn’t afraid to be a father. With the husband who still remembered me.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he’d say with a grin, gently swaying our drowsy boy in his arms, humming *Twinkle Twinkle Little Star* until those tiny eyelids finally drooped.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he’d whisper at 3 a.m., already on his feet before me, changing nappies with the precision of a man who’d done it a thousand times, then passing Oliver back so I could feed him before tucking him in again.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he announced every evening, tying on an apron like some kind of kitchen knight, coaxing spoonfuls of mushy peas into our stubborn toddler’s mouth as if each bite were a grand expedition.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he’d declare, bundling a wriggly one-year-old Ollie into his pram so I could finally shower in peace—or just stare blankly at the wall for half an hour.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he’d chuckle, settling our growing boy onto his lap, spinning wild, off-the-cuff tales about dragons and talking trains—anything to buy me five minutes of blessed silence.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he’d mutter over maths homework, patiently explaining fractions to a very indignant Oliver who refused to believe numbers could be so unreasonable.
*”Mum needs a break,”* he murmured the night Oliver came home late from prom, shuffling past us into the kitchen without a word.
Every time I heard it, warmth surged through me. My heart clenched, tears welled—not from sadness, no, from pure, overwhelming joy. I wanted to freeze time, to live forever in that love.
Then came the third chapter. The moment *Mum* became *Gran*.
*”Gran needs a break!”* he grinned at our sulky grandson, left with us for the weekend, already missing his parents. And just like that, he was humming the same lullaby—only now, for a different little face.
*”Gran needs a break,”* he’d wink, fetching his fishing rods and carting off our grandson—and now-grown Oliver—to the pond down the lane.
*”Gran needs a break,”* he’d say mildly, handing our iPad-glued grandson his headphones with the unspoken command to *turn it down, for heaven’s sake.*
He never got to meet little Sophie. He left too soon, too quietly. The kids moved me in with them—couldn’t bear the thought of me rattling around that empty house alone.
So when I first held tiny Sophie in my arms, I broke. Sobs wrenched out of me. I could’ve sworn I heard him, right there behind me, whispering—
*”Gran needs a break…”*
I even turned around. Foolish hope. But… maybe?
Later, when the house had settled into evening hush and I was nearly asleep, a quiet murmur drifted from the living room. Oliver’s voice, now a man’s: *”Sleep tight, love. Sleep. Mum needs a break…”*
I crept to the door and peeked in. There he was, rocking his baby girl, humming that same lullaby. The one his father had sung to him.
He’s gone. But those words—*Mum needs a break*—live on. In us. In our son. In his children. And in memories even time can’t steal.