L. Bascombe would want to hear about this. She would counsel caution. It is quite possible that she would urge me not to go. Or at least not to go alone. But I don’t plan to ask her advice. Some things are too big, too weighty, to discuss with one’s therapist.

I treasured up all these things and pondered them in my heart.

I am still pondering on Saturday morning as I drive out to Worcester. One hour and twenty-eight minutes of pondering time, the GPS promised me. That’s just to get into the town of Worcester. The additional eight kilometres of travelling east on a gravel road wasn’t factored in.

It dawns on me that my father had a formidable commute when he worked at the university. No wonder he chose to stay over with friends several nights of the week. I watched the distance between him and my mother grow during those years. Then there was the misunderstanding that led to his sacking. It makes more sense now from my adult perspective.

Worcester is beautiful in the way that a place once familiar and now strange can be. I never noticed its beauty before. It was just “town.”

“I’m going into town. Do you need anything?” my father would say. And my mother would hand him a list. “Town” was a source of occasional treats like ice cream, and occasional woe, like trips to the dentist. It was never a place I drove through with my head swivelling from side to side, admiring the views.

I am struck by the width of the streets and the air of prosperity. I admire the steeples of the churches. To the north are the Hex River Mountains, and to the west (hulking, purple) the Du Toitskloof mountains through which I have travelled. This is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and I never realised.

I reduce my speed as I turn onto the gravel road that leads to my father’s farm. I remember feeling as though all the teeth in my head would rattle loose when he took this road too fast. Today it is eerily smooth. I pull over and open my door to look at the road. It has been resurfaced. The craterous potholes and bone-shaking runnels of my youth are gone. Everything has been smoothed over. Flaws have been erased.

Is it possible to choose not to be traumatised?

Today, it will be possible. I have a job to do and I will do it. I will not let my father down. I saw disappointment in his face once. I don’t want to see it again.

When the road rises, and I spot the farmhouse in the distance, my breath does not clog. My chest does not heave. No racing heart. No crushing weight. I have chosen zero trauma. Perhaps I am growing closer to fiction-Lucy after all.