Freedom

The kids had left home and she was going on a road trip with her best friend... so why did she feel so on edge?

- JO STYLES

Get a grip, I told myself.

"OK, so you want live with your dad." I summed up what I'd been told. My fourteen and sixteen-year-olds had called a family meeting and sat me down in the kitchen. I'd split from their dad four years ago. There'd been no question who'd they'd live with back then. My husband, career-orientated, had left the child-rearing to me.

"I'll see them at weekends," he'd said. We'd tried to keep things low-key, always reasonable, always friendly.

If any arrangements changed it would be up to the children. "Dad's place is bigger," my eldest son, Noah, now reasoned as his sister sat swinging her legs under the table.

"I won't have a box room." "It's warmer," his sister Katy added.

"Dad has the heating on more often."

With bigger budget, their dad could treat them to more expensive food, too less baked beans, more steak. He could take them on trips out I couldn't afford. He had another advantages as well. No cleaning? No washing up? No special projects like changing your own bed sheets? You could tip his cleaner with your pocket money increase. I didn't say any of that since I realised my kids had turned into proper teenagers lately - a tiny bit self-absorbed.

I heaved in a slow, deep breath. In for five, out for six and repeat. I could refuse and they'd resent me. I could dissolve into tears and remind them of the years I'd spent making sacrifices. "Do you think you'll get on with Cassandra?" Their dad's partner did live in.

Katy shrugged. "She's OK."

"Yeah, she's all right," Noah agreed.

I swallowed hard. "OK then, what do you need to take?"

They left midweek after packing up their things. They took clothes, books, tech, but no furniture since I expect their dad had already forked out on new items. It was simply his turn to have them, they repeated, as they packed up his car.