If our daughters had swapped places tonight, then our roles would be reversed. The abrupt chasm between our circumstances consists entirely of luck, and that’s enough to make me shudder. My mother-in-law used to tell Helene and me, ‘Just you wait until they’re teenagers,’ and we would roll our eyes behind her back, not believing anything could be harder than the toddler years. How wrong we were. Back then we were only looking forward, towards an endless plateau of possibilities. Then life took over, constricting us into one narrow pathway that was slowly overlaid with a movie reel of memories, the film eroding in places, our choices blurred with our forgotten dreams, our triumphs and our regrets.
All around us, time beat its wings, herding us in the only direction it could. The endless hours of those early years became a seamless tumble of days, gathering momentum as our children grew up. Some of my friends cannot wait to be empty-nesters, but I am pushing hard against the idea. Zac and Georgia’s childhood has gone so fast, and I have more to give, surely, to ensure that my eldest child leaves our house fully prepared for the onslaught of the world. She cannot be ready yet.
My daughter has been preoccupying me for some time. I watch as she gathers prospectuses for university. I take an interest and read them, I ask her what she thinks, and look interested while she talks. But I am a fraud; I am also thinking, Don’t go, don’t leave us. I witness her growing excitement about the possibilities her life may hold, and simultaneously I entertain the horrifying thought that this time, once she goes, she won’t really come back. Her life is just coming into full bloom, her destiny unfurling before her. I am delighted for her, but at times I have to stop myself from grabbing hold of her and begging her not to leave. Even though she asserts her independence at every opportunity, I am going to miss her terribly. I wonder if this is normal, or if the gaps in my own life glare too fiercely, reflected as wanting under the spotlight of Georgia’s hopes and dreams. She is off to make her mark on the world, and what will I do once she is gone? For how many more years will I sit in the lounge each evening, watching TV and waiting for Callum to come home?
Callum has another life already. His colleagues on the rescue team are an alternate family to him, and I play no part in it. He doesn’t seem to want to let me in. Trying to find out what kind of evening he’s had is like pulling teeth. He’ll mention names I’ve never heard of, as if I should know who these people are, and when I ask he’ll look at me strangely and drop in a few words – ‘new recruit’, ‘dog handler’, ‘former policeman’ – as though that’s all I need to know. He is happy enough to talk to Zac and Georgia about their days, and to support them in their hobbies, but other than that his mind is elsewhere. When I told him recently that I wanted to redecorate the kitchen he said, ‘Great.’ I showed him tile samples and brought home brochures and he agreed with every single thing I suggested. In the early days of our marriage, when we often had differing opinions, I would have thought such acquiescence wonderful. We’d fought so fiercely over the children’s schooling that I had never imagined there could be something harder to bear. But when he stopped caring enough to argue we crossed another line towards loneliness. When I lost interest in the kitchen project, Callum didn’t even notice.
For a while I tried to fill these gaps with hobbies. I went to exercise and craft classes and even had a short-lived stint in an amateur dramatics group. And while I enjoyed all those pursuits for what they were, they didn’t remotely heal the space inside me that so desperately wants to be filled. A few hours of distraction can hardly replace the idea of someone to share a life with. Someone who cares how your day has gone enough to respond accordingly, perhaps make you dinner. Someone who will snuggle up in the evenings and discuss joint plans for the future – or even, now and again, buy the odd thoughtful, unexpected gift. Callum does not play this part in my life any more – the wealth of unopened perfume bottles that lie in my dresser drawer from numerous birthdays and Christmases attest to that.
When I focus back on the television I can’t tell if I have been asleep or just lost in daydreams. I check my mobile but there’s nothing. The program has changed to news from overseas. An angry mob of men and women half a world away have invaded my living room, shouting at the camera about things I don’t understand. The timer on the electric fire has clicked off, snuffing out the artificial flames, and it is getting colder by the minute. The clock on the DVD player reads 12.12 am.
My head is foggy now. I need to give up chasing my worries around in circles, and focus on the morning. I work at the school on Fridays – I’m one of two part-time counsellors, and I will be needed. There will be students wanting support to deal with tonight’s trauma, as well as my regular appointments. I take my responsibilities for the emotional wellbeing of these young adults as seriously as Callum takes his towards the hikers and climbers on the fells. And yet, all I want to do tomorrow is stay home with Georgia, and keep her close. Can I do that? Surely everyone will understand.
Go to bed, I tell myself again, but my body won’t move. I’m drifting again, even though I would rather stay awake, to stave off what tomorrow might bring.
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