Ten years ago, I sat in my mother’s kitchen, clutching her last jar of bitter, chunky homemade marmalade as a grey fog descended. My parents had both died within a month of each other, and nothing had prepared me for this sudden expulsion from childhood. Who was I now, without a mother or father? Where did I go from here?
As chance — or fate — would have it, this existential crisis came at a liminal moment. My younger son had finished school; my older one, his degree. Our family was hovering between past and future, a rare window where our lives had loosened. A space we could fill with adventure.
