We sat down to have our Saturday dinner, the adventure packed burgers made by my husband. The turkey burgers were spiced with love and few other ingredients which my tongue failed to recognise. They were just delicious.
‘It’s quiet without No 2, isn’t it?’ my husband looked at me. ‘Yes.’ I agreed thinking about my six-year-old. ‘Shall we phone the Beaver leaders and ask how he is?’ The question that was ready to come out popped not wasting this opportunity. ‘We’d better leave it. It’s not fair on the leaders.’ my husband explained.
I agreed with him. However, my chest filled with this sadness realising we have to let go our children and let them live their life at some point. That reminded me of my parents. They had to let me go, too.
I left home when I was fifteen. I had to continue my studies in Ulyastai as Sant, the village school did not have the last two years of secondary education. I remember watching other children’s parents seeing off their kids and wondered where my parents were. My parents would pack and prepare everything with me until the last minute. Mum would always go to work. They made it easy for me to think that I was doing something everyone does. There was no big fuss.
Years later, they told me why they were not there to wave me goodbye. My parents could not see me going away. They could not handle it. Mum stood just round a corner where the truck was and watched me going into distance…
That love made me strong and independent. That love fed me the best food they could find. That love played wrestling with me and lost. That love read me stories and raised me.
How about you? When did you leave home? How was it? Do you have grown-up children? How did you feel when they left home?