The Overnight Bag Never Unpacked

Since his parents separated, thirty-year-old Milo had carried an overnight bag whenever he visited his hometown. Each parent assumed he would stay, and he preferred inventing practical excuses to admitting that both spare rooms made him feel twelve. He booked a hotel once, then cancelled it after his mother mentioned buying his favourite breakfast cereal specially.

This visit, his father had arranged a film for Saturday evening and his mother wanted an early walk on Sunday. Milo could satisfy both plans only by spending the night at his father's and leaving before breakfast. He studied the timetable as though the problem concerned transport rather than the exhausting need to distribute himself fairly between two households.

At the station, he booked a room above a pub. Then he sent both parents the address and said he would see them at the agreed times. His mother replied with a disappointed face; his father asked whether the room was expensive. Milo nearly cancelled again. Instead, he put the phone away and bought a sandwich he did not have to justify.

The room was noisy, and he slept badly. In the morning, he wanted to complain but feared that this would prove the decision wrong. During the walk, he told his mother about the noise anyway. She recommended a quieter hotel for next time, sounding both helpful and hurt. Milo thanked her. His independence had not made anybody perfectly comfortable, including himself, but the overnight bag finally had a chosen destination.