My father had been going to drive me. It’s what parents do when their child goes off to college and a new place to live in. I’ve seen enough of it to know. They pack up the trunk of the car and all the back of the car too, with clothes and sports gear and books and radio and CD player and maybe a computer and, of course, a hamper of food. It’s a joyful occasion, a turning point in someone’s life, and if it’s the dad driving and the mother left behind, she’s tearful but she’s smiling too, calling out “Good luck” and making the departing one promise to phone as soon as she’s settled in and not to forget the cold chicken in the hamper and the homemade cake. My leaving home wasn’t like that. I wouldn’t have expected it to be and I never had much faith in my father’s promise. As it happened, the car went in for service the day before and the garage phoned and said they’d like to keep it for another day to have a look at the electrics. Maybe Dad didn’t fix it that way. I expect it was just a piece of luck for him. Anyway, they said it couldn’t be helped, I’d just have to manage on the train.

So I left in much the same way as I’ve lived these past two years, under a cloud. After the pylon my parents had counseling, just as I did, and the counselor told them they had to be understanding and supportive. It was their responsibility to help me put all that behind me and make a fresh start, not blame myself and feel guilty all the time. But they couldn’t. I suppose they couldn’t help themselves. I think they really saw me as evil. One of the ways they dealt with it was to tell me they didn’t “know where I got it from,” as if every action you performed and every mistake you made had been made by a string of ancestors before you and passed on in a gene of thoughtlessness or daring—or evil. This morning and all through lunch they were giving me those looks that are a mix of wonderment and—well, resignation, I suppose. And I could see something else there too: relief, hope maybe, a fresh start for them as well.