It’s the year 2033. You have just waved your youngest child out the door and on to university.  

Finally, after everything, after all that sacrifice, the sleep deprivation, the noise, the arguments, the worry, the taxiing around, paying triple the price for trips in the summer holidays, the sickening credit card statements, the greying hairs and the lines in your forehead, you have the house to yourself.  

The day is yours to fill as you see fit because you’re time-rich. 

You sit down with your partner and clink glasses – celebrating a job well done: you’ve successfully raised your children through to adulthood.  

You talk about everything you want to do, the trips you’ll take and the hobbies you’ll start. The books you’ll read, the ones that have been on the shelf gathering dust for years. 

Then there will be this silence. A long, drawn-out silence. 

And you realise you’re not looking forward to the days ahead. You’re mourning the days behind. You miss the thing you couldn’t wait to be over, the noise, the chaos, the interruptions, the madness – you would trade anything to get it all back. 

But that’s not possible.  

So, only one question remains: did you make those years raising your children count? Were you there? Did you enjoy them? Did they? 

It’s 2033, and there has never been a more poignant moment in your life.