by Carol Barnard

Created on: October 30, 2008   Last Updated: October 06, 2011

She stared at the photograph in her hand. Looking back at her was her daughter, a golden haired youth; big blue eyes. shiny white teeth and an air of complete confidence. She stood in the centre of the bedroom drinking in the scene of abandonment. The bed was stripped of the comforting signs of occupancy, tacks remained embedded in bare walls and the crooked bookcase was no longer creaking under the weight of books, DVDs and anything else that couldn't be found a home. She looked down at the red wine stain on the carpet, discovered when the prised Afghan rug was rolled up ready for the move, and smiled at the memory of he daughter's obvious embarrassment at being found out. This room once so alive with indescribable rock music, friends and boyfriends, make-up and piles of randomly discarded clothing, was now sterile and empty. Her daughter had left home. It was not like when she went to university. Then, it seemed as if she had hardly settled in when she was back for the long Christmas and summer breaks. During those holidays the house would throb with life; doors slamming, endless phoning and text messaging, music loud enough to make your ears bleed and the neighbours complain, long slightly drunken conversations with her sat cross legged on your bed at two in the morning, reaching out to her when a relationship had turned sour or a holiday job was driving her crazy. Good times gone, never to be repeated.

Growing up here in this coastal haven, her daughter had known a freedom she would never have been allowed in a more urban environment. Ironically, this gave her the confidence to be able to go out into the world and experience all it had to offer. The opportunities in her desired career were many miles away, based in a bigger, busier more dynamic place than the little backwater she was raised in.

She had spoken to her daughter a number of times since her departure two months ago:

She had settled in really well with her three housemates.

The job was as exciting as she had hoped.

Food is so expensive.

She's been invited to a pirate themed housewarming party.

There's a gig on at the festival hall she's bought tickets for.

She's off to the local with her housemates, it's quiz night and free beer is on offer.

The mother, sighed with joy, and sighed with grief:

The joy of knowing your offspring are being young, happy and excited about what might be around the next corner. The joy that they did not feel trapped or guilted into staying, the joy of knowing they are making memories that they can look back on with undiluted pleasure in later life. The joy of knowing you helped them achieve this.

The grief of watching them leave home, of having very little or no influence on them anymore, of not being the most important person in their lives, the grief of having to let go of your children in order for them to become the adults they deserve to be.

That is truly a mother's lot.

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