I’ve been staring at this screen for a good half hour now, maybe more. Just watching the cursor blink. Is that a thing people do? I dunno. I guess I’m just trying to figure out how to put into words… everything. My youngest, Leo, left for uni last week. Abroad. Proper abroad, not just a hop over the Channel. Australia. And everyone said, "Oh, how exciting! What an adventure for him!" And yeah, it is. But for me? It feels… well, I guess it feels like the end of something. My mates, they all asked if I was crying. If I was sad. And I said, "Nah, not really. Proud, mostly." And it’s true, I am proud of him. He’s a good kid. But the truth is, I didn’t cry. Not a single tear. We said our goodbyes at the airport, big hugs, a bit of that forced cheerfulness parents do when their kid is off to do something HUGE. And then he was gone. And I just… felt flat. Like when you’ve been building something with LEGO all day, really concentrated, and then it’s done. And you just look at it. No real feeling either way. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? My whole adult life, practically, has been about the kids. After Leo came along, with the other two already needing so much, it just made sense for me to stay home. My husband, Dave, he made decent money at the factory, enough for us to scrape by, keep the bills paid, a little bit for holidays sometimes. But not enough for childcare for three. So I stayed. And it was good, mostly. Busy. Always busy. School runs, packed lunches, scraped knees, homework battles. Always someone needing something. Always a purpose. Now… it’s just quiet. The house is so quiet. My other two, they’ve been out of the nest for years, doing their own thing. But Leo, he was always… the last one. The one who still needed me for little things. “Mum, where’s my charger?” “Mum, did you see my passport?” All those little, everyday demands that kept me… necessary. And now, nothing. Dave’s still at work, obviously. Comes home, we eat dinner, watch telly. And I just sit there. And think. What now? My skills are all for domestic stuff, for raising kids. Nobody’s hiring a professional packer of lunchboxes, are they? I found myself yesterday, tidying Leo’s room, even though it’s spotless. Just moving his rugby trophy an inch to the left, then an inch back. Like I was trying to conjure up some mess, some reason to be in there. And it hit me, I’m 52. What have I actually DONE with my life besides this? Raised three good kids, yeah, that’s something. But beyond that? I don’t know. I feel like an old toy that’s been put away in the attic because no one plays with it anymore. A bit dusty. A bit forgotten. And I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with all this… quiet. With all this… me.