Back in January, she’d asked me how I wanted to spend my birthday this year. I was probably grumbling at the pandemic-enforced lack of adventure in our lives. My last two birthdays had fallen in full-blown lockdowns. Our family unit bubbled across two households, so I at least got the semi-cinematic pleasure of watching the movie of my choice on my ex-husband’s enormous projector screen as a birthday treat. But I was definitely ready for more than that.
“Oh I don’t know!” I said. She pressed me further. Even thinking outside the four walls seemed a fairly pointless activity at this time. She pushed further still. “Ok … I guess, ideally, in my dreams, I’d love us to go away for an adventure. Edinburgh, maybe?” “Well why can’t we?” the irritatingly wise eight-year-old replied.