I abandoned my youngest son in a cold Northern city one fine autumn day.
It's what we do with our young, it's our way of pushing them out of the nest. We hope and pray that they really can fly, that they won't crash and burn. And suddenly, there's a huge hole in my life, in my heart, in my home. The house is often silent now, peaceful, serene, still, and I love it, so why do I still crave the noise and mess and sheer vitality of my son? He regularly used to drive me to distraction and I often longed for the day when I could reclaim my life for myself, it having been so well used by my children for so many years.
Everything in my life now is so different, it's hard to know where to begin counting the ways in which it has changed, but this has to be the most significant. I'm now living in my new home, with my new partner in a different part of the country and slowly trying to put a life together, pretty much from scratch.
I think we must have been mad to do this, but at the same time, it seems terribly sane. Time will tell.