Every parent I know feels guilty for spending time away from their children.  

I’m no exception. But sometimes I get this feeling. I have a name for it. I call it ‘the sliding-doors parental effect’. 

It happens when I’m presented with a choice about how to spend a block of time. The other morning, I was debating whether to go and write for an hour until the boys asked me to play.  

It kicked in: the sliding-doors parental effect. 

Time slowed.  

In less than a second, I was teleported to the future, to the bedside of an elderly version of me waiting to greet death. Together, we considered the choice before me: do I play, or do I write? 

Old me said the same thing he always says: ‘Go and play. You can write later.’ 

I returned to the present moment. Time resumed its usual pace. My boys were waiting patiently for my answer. I gave it. And we started playing, off on our adventures. 

I converse regularly with old me. I have a love–hate relationship with him. 

Part of me wishes he would piss off and allow me to make the occasional selfish decision without being harried by guilt.  

But I’m also grateful to him. For imaginary old me is truly my guardian angel. And you know what? He’s always bloody right!  

Not all time is created equal. Some things can be moved. But others, like the opportunity to play with my boys while they’re this age, cannot. 

Old me is always in my corner, ensuring that when I become him for real, I will do so armed with a list of regrets that’s as short as possible.  

In fact, right now, as I write this, I can hear the boys upstairs playing a game, and they're calling for me. I’m desperate to finish— screw it.