I am hurtling across France at 200 miles an hour, the sun is setting over some lakes in Northern Burgundy, the quiet beauty of my country unravels: Villages, cows, vineyards on a hillside, a light winter fog nestling in the valleys. It is the end of the day, the end of a wretched week too, and I am looking forward to a week end at my parents’.
The children are with T, and I hope they have a good time. Never had they been apart from him for two weeks before, and they have missed him dearly. Meanwhile, for a couple of days, I can stop being someone’s mummy, and enjoy being someone’s child, feeling loved and safe, being fed too much and told to put a scarf on.