Rather sooner than I had expected, The Daughter is parenting me. I am adrift in my study, bobbing about in a sea of books and papers, drowning in wordcounts and references as I flail helplessly in a bid to reach the deceptive safety of the final printed essay.
In an odd role reversal, she is bringing me endless cups of tea, promising to bake chocolate brownies and take me shopping later.
I hear my own phrases, sprinkled liberally throughout her GCSEs and A-levels, coming back to haunt me, “You’ll be fine”, “You know more than you think you know”, “The sun will still rise tomorrow”.
With more deadlines hurtling towards me than you can shake a stick at, The Daughter had better be right.