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The kids now declare, “You can go, we’re staying.”

Erm, it’s the other way around. We have to return for the sake of your education. Otherwise we’d gladly make this migration.

They mumble something about their studies not being that important. Of course we have to be the bearers of bad news.

Yes, departure at the end of six weeks here is always hard. Soon we will leave these spacious rooms to return to cramped accommodation. In a few days’ time they will be forced back into that monotonous routine, their freedom to roam curtailed.

Annoyed, our son spits out his denunciation of the English or some facet of home, hoping it will wind me up. But he forgets I chose this life, long before he became enamored by it. Likewise, he ignores that I’m the one who built this house, making hopeful plans for the future.

And so must we all, delaying our dreams until every prerequisite has been put in place. To them the years ahead seem like an epoch, but at our age they fly by. Certainly, the past five years have simply vanished.

In truth, we all make plans, but none of us knows when our departure will be, and where we will be at that moment. Here or there, or somewhere else completely. In the end, our destiny is out of our hands.