I have the fear. The fear wakes me up at 3 a.m. and for a split second I forget what it is exactly that I’m frightened of. And then I remember. I am a mother and one of my children is off travelling and is on the other side of the world.
In the still of the night I prioritise The List. I practise the breathing techniques Betty Parsons taught me when I was first pregnant 24 years ago. The ineffectual huffs and puffs that were supposed to transcend pain. The List catalogues ‘worst case scenarios’ and I systematically shuffle my top five in order of anxiety. I have become the peri-menopausal, female Charles Highway of irrational angst. While The Rachel Papers were concerned with getting the girl, my list deals with how to let her go.
I try to rationalise the fear. My parents had to do all their worrying without the gadgets of teenage surveillance.
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