Today was my eldest son’s last day of high school. He returns with a leavers’ hoodie and a certificate showing he’d been voted "Next Einstein" by his peers. I examine his face and body language – he exudes happiness and confidence.
I sigh with relief. Mentally berate myself for expecting the worst– tears, anxiety. Or maybe that’s how I thought I’d be feeling.
The high school here has been fantastic for him. He’s made great friends and enjoyed a supportive learning environment.
His school blazer and tie are dropped into the laundry basket for the last time. He updates me about who won which award. I am thankful that, at 17, he still talks to me openly, confides in me, asks for advice.
I'm proud of how he has developed over the past four years during our new life in Scotland.
I wish him all the best as he embarks on his biggest adventure to date. An unconditional offer at university already accepted, he can relax over the summer.
Me? I’ll worry about the cost of accommodation, about no longer having someone to watch the football with, about how much I will miss him.
However, I’m confident we will both adjust to him moving on.