The Moment the House Actually Went Quiet
I had spent years joking about the day the children finally left home. The kitchen would stay clean. There would be food in the fridge for more than twenty minutes. Nobody would need a lift at the exact moment I sat down. Most of all, I would finally have time.
So when my youngest, Emily, left for university, I genuinely thought I was prepared. We drove her there, carried the boxes upstairs, made the bed, bought the things she had somehow forgotten despite weeks of packing, hugged goodbye, and drove home. I cried a little in the car. But I was fine. At least I thought I was.
Then I walked upstairs. Her bed was perfectly made. Her books were still on the shelf. A bottle of perfume was sitting where she had left it. The room was not empty. But for the first time in twenty-four years, neither of my children lived in my house.
I sat on the edge of her bed and realised that she was not coming home that evening. There would be no footsteps upstairs. No door opening. No “Mum, what’s for dinner?”
And underneath the sadness was a question I had not prepared myself for:
What do I do with myself now?
That question is where this book began.