My trigger moment was an argument over a beanbag. It wasn’t the unnaturally tidy teenage bedroom or the silent house. Nor the sight of my daughter’s fluffy slipper sock dramatically pulled from behind the sofa cushions while vacuuming the lounge once she’d departed. No, my emotional empty-nest flashpoint came over a seemingly innocuous discussion about transporting a beanbag to student digs. My youngest wanted to take it. I didn’t want her to. She got exasperated. I got teary.
In the end, it was my eldest who called it. ‘You’re not usually this invested in the whereabouts of a beanbag, Mum! Do you think you may be a bit upset about Imi going to uni?’
All week I’d been tetchy and snappy, out of sorts and spoiling for a fight. And I couldn’t put my finger on why. But this moment of reflection revealed
