We came home after seeing you off at university, somewhat shell-shocked. Where there were four of us, there are now three. Like every mother who has to, at some point, let go, here I am, grappling with it, slipping, failing. Here I was, thinking I was teaching you with my nagging mantras: “Say hello; look people in the eye; be disciplined; brush your teeth; keep your word; be on time; be extra kind to the vulnerable, the disabled, poor, elderly, ill and lonely.” Work for what you want. It takes a big man to say “please,” “thank you,” and “sorry;” use deodorant.

Only insecure people are mean-spirited, and on and on.” But sitting now on your unslept bed, in your room, where I rifle through your schoolboy days, copy books and medals, globes, geometry sets, books on dragons and dinosaurs, progressing to the complexity you relish, economics and philosophy, I have an “aha” moment. It is I who have been doing the learning; you, the teaching.

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