A parent's greatest worry, when they send their children off and out, out into the wide, wide world, that has only seemed to grow in size as the years drag on, is whether they'll be alright. Whether they know the strength in asking for help, and the wisdom in knowing it's almost always there for them when they need it. There are smaller fears, too, like how often will they remember to call home? Will they make themselves their favourite meal? Will they miss their parents? Or will the newness and opportunities, the growth and exploration, will it all distract them so much, too much, like a cat following the point of a laser, right off the edge of the sofa, off down the side with a rather indignant yowl. Unhurt, of course, save for their pride. If they don't ring, when they don't ring, you can only ring them, texting them first so that you can catch them when they're on their phones, unable to hide that they're there, nowadays it's the only way to ensure those of that age answer it seems. But if you don't, if you stick to texts and messages, awaiting replies that eventually come, you step into some nuance of the typed word – not written, these hidden meanings too new to have sprung from pen and paper – never known before, unwittingly causing offence with simple adherence to punctuation. Some do still try, asking for notes and rules to put on the pad by the telephone, pressed neatly atop the seldom used pages littered with numbers scribbled out too many years ago now. There's always some that fall through, missing from the cheat sheet, leaving you to grasp at meaning, tentatively googling only to find potentials innumerable and subject to context incomprehensible. That's on purpose I'm afraid. It's nothing personal – we just need a buffer for when we slip. There are some things you just don't need to know, the parents, some things we keep to our conversations with each other that you've never really understood. That's not a bad thing though! Understanding is so important, yes, but you know what is even more important than that? Acceptance. Even when you don't understand us, you accept us, that means more than can be said. You accept us and our quirks, not despite of but because of. We forget to call and fear the phone when it rings, we speak in tongues that change almost daily, we ask for our favourite meals because even when we try it just doesn't taste the same. Or at least that's what we claim, you're always so suspicious that we just don't want to cook. You accept us for that too. Begrudgingly. We know that you're there, with one of those cartoony trampolines to rush under us if we fall too far, or a camera to record us if it's just a slip like the cat. You'll drive six hours after a long shift to a country you hate just to nurse us back to health from a cold. I mean, it was tonsillitis, had antibiotics and everything, never had it before, but sure. And I know it doesn't ease the worry nagging at you when you open your phone in the morning, after weeks without a single word, to find the horrific saga of a butchered tin of soup sent at one in the morning when you know damn well you bought a perfectly serviceable tin opener. Turns out I may not know how to use a tin opener. Or a knife. The spoon worked though.