My daughter went on holiday for a week – and I fell into a million pieces

I’ve always suspected there is a performative element at play when parents claim they can’t bear to be apart from their children for even one night. You know the ones.

They insist they’ve not had a moment’s peace in a decade.

Their tea is always cold before they get round to drinking it.

Trips to the bathroom are rarely a solo affair.

But the idea of letting granny take their little darlings for a sleepover is just too upsetting to contemplate.

She doesn’t know their ROUTINE. The air quality of her home is sub-standard.

And her sweetie cupboard goes against all the NHS healthy eating guidelines.

I don’t know what the purpose of this parental martyrdom is but I’m highly suspicious of it.

I should preface this next part by explaining that I love my daughter very, very much.

She’s my favourite person in the whole world. I’d die for her. I’d wrestle any midsized zoo animal on her behalf.

But not only am I able to cope with nights apart from her: I actively enjoy them.

Report me to the Mumsnet mafia for my crimes, I don’t care.

Maybe it’s because I’m well practised at unjoining her from my hip.

Her dad and I separated when she was two. And since then, she’s spent most weekends with him.

It works for us.

She gets to spend quality time with her other parent. I get to spend quality time with a good book and my second-favourite companion: total silence.

The odd night here and there is no bother, at all.

Sometimes when she’s away, I even make plans to leave the house and socialise with other adults.

But last week was a new challenge. My daughter flew the nest for seven whole days, off on holiday in a fancyshmancy house with her Dad and wider family.

I’ll admit, I initially found the prospect quite thrilling.

A whole week of solitude.

Just imagine what could be achieved with that number of child-free hours.

I had big plans for a pre-autumn declutter.

And I was going to enjoy grown-up stuff like increased productivity at work and ignoring my 6am alarm.

I was also looking forward to a few – incredibly specific – things that my tiny overlord has banned from our house over the years.

Like listening to slow jazz music (it makes her feel emotional) and applying Deep Heat to my perpetually sore joints (the smell makes her furious).

Can you guess where this is going? I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I moped about, like those woolly, clingy parents that I’ve always judged so unfavourably.

The house was a unbearably quiet. Without a small human to cook for (and offer overblown compliments about how WOW! AMAZING! my food is) I reverted back to the diet I lived on before she was born.

If it isn’t beige and it isn’t processed then I ain’t interested.

Pot Noodles, McDonalds, crisps – SO MANY CRISPS – wine, bread, cheese triangles and more bread (toasted, this time – just to mix things up a bit.)

Occasionally (okay, a couple of times a day) I phoned her to see how she was getting on. Which is mum-speak for: I MISS YOU, MY WEE LAMB.

The feeling wasn’t mutual. She didn’t miss me.

Save for a few tearful phone calls when her dad had let her stay up five hours past her bedtime and she had all the emotional stability of a maudlin drunk auntie at a wedding, she barely registered my existence.

The fact that she was having such a brilliant time brought comfort on those days when I spent an embarrassing amount of time scrolling through my phone watching old videos of her singing. And then finally, she came home. A week’s worth of kisses and cuddles! “I’ve missed your diluting juice,’’ she said, and I was pathetically grateful to receive one of her unearned compliments. She told me we had a week’s worth of kisses and cuddles to catch up on (“would you say we do maybe 15 kisses a day?? So 15 times seven, times all the cuddles?’’) before apologetically admitting the maths was beyond her.

That night, despite the fact it was approximately 400C outside, I let her sleep in my bed.

When her tiny wee arm snaked towards me and circled itself firmly around my jugular, I didn’t move it away, as I usually do.

Well, not for the first few seconds, anyway – a girl’s gotta breathe.

A week is a long time when you are a parent. Far too long to be apart from your favourite person.

But I suspect that works both ways. So when the weekend comes and she heads off to see her dad again, I’ll embrace the Saturday solitude like an old friend.

It’s because I’m well practised at unjoining her from my hip

SEPARATION ANXIETY: While a few nights spent away from your child here and there don’t go amiss, a week is arguably too long.