After she placed her hamster on top of the pile of boxed books on the back seat, she turned to face her father.
The first of our children leaving home and I was driving her down to her new flat over 100 miles away.
I busied myself on the driver’s side of the car, checking the route on the map but I could still see them from the corner of my eye.
He was standing a few feet back from her, arms folded across his chest. The offer of a hug was not going to be forthcoming, no matter how much he wanted one.
Faced with his impassive posture, her little figure slumped slightly with resignation before she said a terse goodbye and got into the passenger seat.
I knew that feeling of rejection by his self-imposed isolation only too well.
As we drove away, I watched him in the rear-view mirror.
Solitary, almost forlorn, he stood outside the house and looked after us as until we turned the corner at the end of the road.
He gazed, almost hopefully, after the two women in his life who had both moved away.
My heart caught in my chest and I could feel the tears scratching at the back of my throat and filling my eyes. It was like leaving him all over again.
Glancing across, I could see that my daughter was similarly affected.
You see, we both love him very much, but we just can’t live with him.
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