This is the fifth year I have dropped one of my offspring at university – the second child and his fourth year. And it does get easier – but just a little!
That final parting, that last sight of your child as you drive away, still brings a paroxysm of sobs that push forth like dry heaves. They die quickly, and you drive out of this strange town focusing only on the miserable scowls of the residents and the streets that look threatening.
My rational side knows he is fine – he’s 21, big, smart and friendly – maybe too friendly, too open, too keen to help. But he knows this town and even sees some goodness among the unfriendly faces. “Mum, you have to look mean here – if you walk about looking happy, someone will pick on you!” These words bring me no joy. But I know it makes sense.
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