What were your parents doing at your age?
At my age, my father had been retired for about eight years.
He’d spent decades as a civilian in the Australian Navy—dockyard work, public service, a steady and conventional path. But he didn’t retire because he ran out of things to do. He retired because he ran out of patience for a system that no longer valued what mattered. He was told by a Rear Admiral that the work he was doing was a waste of time. At the same time he could see obvious wastage that could have saved millions, and no one seemed interested. He sensed change coming, and he stepped away—helped by the fact that, after years in the system, he had a lifetime pension.
Retirement didn’t slow him down. It simply redirected him. He poured himself into vintage cars, painting, bush regeneration, committees, and writing the family history—restorative work, in every sense of the word.
My mother’s life looked steadier and less defined by “before and after.” At my age she did what she had always done: she focused on family. Even with everyone out of home, she remained oriented toward people—helping out, keeping in touch, holding the threads together.
And both of them were also caring for their aging parents. They lived nearby and were attentive to what was needed. It wasn’t dramatic; it was faithful. A quiet duty woven into ordinary weeks.
Now my father is turning 96. His health is good for his age, though my mother’s health is poor. I see them weekly, and every visit contains the same question:
“When are you going to retire?”
My answer never changes: “When I pay off the mortgage.”
They had an exit ramp my generation sometimes doesn’t: comfortable home, public service stability, lifetime pension, retirement when the house was paid off and the stress became too much. My life has been different—different timelines, different pressures. Not better. Not worse. Just different.
But when I hear their question, I don’t only hear finances. I hear something deeper: a hope that one day I, too, will have room to breathe—and to give my days to what matters most.
The Afterword 
Leave a comment