Worry

Sarah needed a scan and it took another endless hour to get to the scan room and that was harrowing too in so many respects. Her dad and I, just the two of us sitting in lonely isolation way down the corridor but we could still hear her screaming.

To distract myself I chatted amiably with this man whose last communication with me had been one of the famous ‘Fuck Off’ letters that I received 18 months ago. I don’t know anyone of his close family and friends who hasn’t had one, where he basically tells you F off and never to contact him again. Very useful when he’s supposed to be the other half of a parenting ‘team’.

‘You stop worrying when they get older,’ he said. My jaw dropped. Okay, he might only see them once a week but surely he was smarter than that. How could he think there was less to worry about as they grew older and more independent. The need was self-evident.

It annoyed me and I made it my business to point out that if anything your worries increased ten fold. Late nights out with friends, teenage drivers driving them around, drugs, drinks, sex – not to mention buses.

Conversation pretty much died after that.

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