aAlmost eight years ago my daughter left home. I then wrote a tearful piece about it, full of Elsschot quotes (‘freighted with pieces of the old nest’) because I feared that her brothers would soon follow, after which I would have to sit uselessly in that looted nest and wait for death.
Things turned out differently. Those guys were in no hurry to get away at all. Yes, they sometimes threatened it during collisions, but that was clearly big talk, because where were they supposed to go? Anyone who wants to find housing in Amsterdam has to act extremely decisively, and that is not their strong suit.
About the author
Sylvia Witteman prescribes de Volkskrant columns about daily life.
I thought it was fun. Yes, there were always scooter helmets and enormous shoes everywhere, the food was in short supply, I couldn’t follow the ubiquitous conversations about football and cars, their opinions on politics and society sometimes left me speechless with indignation, and when you ask ‘what Shall we eat tonight?’, you sometimes want to hear something other than ‘Chicken. Lots of chicken’. But it is nice, those boys in your house, a warm bath, which I gradually came to believe would always remain that way.
“I found a room,” said my eldest son this week. I was just eating a sandwich and swallowed hard. ‘How great!’ I said. And it is also good, of course. He is a grown man, although he remains my little Boelie, who always stood anxiously watching the ducks ducking in the pond to see if they would surface again. Maybe he still does, but when you’re 23, your mother no longer has to watch with emotion. Better not.
He sat down at the table, also had a sandwich, and answered my worried questions. No, the new room was not in Australia, but a five-minute bike ride from our house. Very small, his bed just fit in there. No, I wasn’t allowed to come and have a look until he had cleaned it up a bit first. Yes, of course he would come home for dinner often. (Chicken, lots of chicken.) And going to the dentist every six months, ‘yeah, Jesus, mom…’
So we continued to chat, he happily biting into yet another sandwich, I chewing my teeth, full of suppressed sadness and self-pity. What kind of life is that when your children leave you to live in a dirty cave?
“I will miss this most,” my son said, looking at me. Oh, those sweet eyes of his. No, don’t cry now. ‘What?’ I asked hoarsely.
And, pointing to his sandwich, he said: ‘This delicious cheese.’
