My child had called four times. On my phone his name turned red from the missed calls. I hadn’t heard anything because I was standing at the bar at a company drink and journalists are rarely quiet.
The photo that his father had texted that afternoon immediately flashed through my mind. The glass of one of our old dividing doors was shattered due to an outburst of anger from the teenage child. Had things gotten even further out of hand?
I walked outside and called back. He didn’t answer. Of course, teenagers never answer. (They also never say hello before hanging up, you’re suddenly talking into a vacuum.)
My colleagues muttered that he had probably lost his football boots, but sometimes you just have to let worried mothers worry for a while.
He didn’t text back either. Adolescents never text back, unless they want money to go to KFC or buy some nice fresh air.
The colleagues started talking about things their children had been up to, and how little you can do about it once they reach a certain age. I decided to visit a young, childless colleague to talk about something other than troublesome offspring.
It became the war. The young colleague had reported that day on a ‘sit-in’ for the Palestinians and he asked me what I thought of that slogan ‘from the river to the sea’. I had no opinion and he doubted everything, so it became a good conversation.
My worries evaporated at the suffering in the Middle East. That child of mine had nothing to complain about – otherwise he would have to answer his phone. We had another drink and were silent for a while, thinking about that one thing. Sometimes even journalists are silent.
On the way home I first came across a chip shop stuck in the mud and then I ended up in a strange traffic jam of students exercising in front of a bicycle bridge. It didn’t work out and it had to because the father of my children also has a life. With the stress, the worries returned to my body: was everything going well there?
At home it turned out to be a happy chaos. The glass had been cleared away and the youngest thought it was very funny that he could now stick his head through the connecting door. His father, as always, was looking for keys and earplugs before going to band practice.
“Yo dude!”, the good-natured teenager greeted me. “Do you know where my football boots are?”