The first steps to Independence
My youngest daughter has decided to live on her own, in her own space, following her own rules. No nagging sisters around her. ‘And,’ she says, ‘then my sister’s hijab won’t constantly confront me.’ It’s a little sad, of course, that this is also part of her reason for moving out. But making plans to stand on your own two feet isn’t all that strange when you’re twenty.
And so two days ago, off she went — with good spirits and way too many bags — to her dad’s house. He is on a work-trip, and there’s nothing more fun than pretending you’ve got your own place with a friend. She asked if I could drive her, given the huge pile of stuff. But not too early, please, because her friend wouldn’t be arriving until later that evening. And being alone was most definitely not the plan.
By ten that night, I was getting a little impatient. I still hadn’t dropped her off, but I had promised myself an early night — which, for me, means being in bed by half-past nine. She understood, of course, and even though her friend wouldn’t get there until much later, she said I could drop her off at her temporary place. But I saw it immediately in her face: she was dreading something. Perhaps, she realised that being all by herself also meant being alone. And right then, my brave daughter didn’t seem so brave after all.
