Should I crash my son’s gap year?
- The Times
- Feb 28
- 2 min read
Updated: Jun 6
An empty nest hits some parents harder than expected and Michelle Obama recently admitted to having therapy to deal with hers. I’m the same age as Mrs O, a “nan-aged” empty-nester who had two sons in my late thirties and early forties. However, after the sudden accidental death of my elder son, Jackson, in September 2023, at the age of just 21, it’s fair to say my nest is even emptier than the former first lady’s. Emptier, indeed, than I ever imagined it could be.
I haven’t had therapy and found other ways to get through. Yet towards the end of 2024 I’d all but exhausted my coping strategies when my partner was suddenly diagnosed with cancer and rushed into surgery. To deal with yet more extreme stress I chose to retreat; to batten down the hatches to get through what promised to be another tough winter, at the end of the cruellest year of my life.
If this wasn’t tough enough, while navigating profound personal loss and illness I lost friendships too. Inevitably, as so many testing, unanticipated chapters of my life unfolded, not everybody in it was able to stay on the same page.
Still, while in this peculiar holding pattern I had sufficient wherewithal to suggest to my 18-year-old son, Rider, that after the worst year of his life — coinciding with his A-levels — he should probably embark on his richly deserved gap year even sooner than he had planned. With my partner about to start three months of postoperative preventive chemotherapy and Rider’s friends scattered to uni or on travels of their own, there was little to look forward to at home, in the House of Absolutely No Fun Whatsoever.
The Bank of Mum and Dad — albeit separated and repartnered for many years — ensured Rider boarded a flight to Brisbane on December 5 last year. At the other end he was met by my Aussie half-brother, Jonny, sister-in-law, Felicity, and two of my three nephews, Dominic, 10, and Memphis, 14 months, whom I’d never even met myself. It had been 16 years since I’d last visited Australia (along with a six-year-old Jackson) and 12 years since my Australian family had visited me; the latest addition to their family was born exactly a month to the day after Jackson had died.
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