The Last Time

A series of lasts before the most exciting firsts.

Completely obsessed with how the London light fell as we headed to the spa on Saturday.

Sundaze Book Café is the home of everyday magic, joyful living and conversations likely to be had over a hot drink with a friend in your favourite café, capturing the syrup-slow feel and glow of a Sunday. I’m Michelle, and I’ll be your host today.

Late on Sunday afternoon, I sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor, unpacking my bag when it hits me:

This is the last time I’ll unpack my bag after a weekend at my boyfriend’s.

For the past three years and more, packing and unpacking my overnight bag has been a cumbersome dance in my week. It’s been an excited jaunty jive as I plan a handful of outfits to – hopefully – suit whatever we end up doing (I was almost always unprepared). It’s been a slow, mournful waltz of unpacking worn clothing ready for the laundry (oh, the never-ending burden). Unpacking is a burden. It is also, at its heart, a reflective ritual: here is the dress I wore for a delicious meal and romantic date at our favourite restaurant, where the waiter already knows our order. Here are the thermal socks I packed in case we headed out for a Saturday hike (we went for a pub lunch instead). Here is my/his favourite perfume. Here is a bag full of another weekend of joyful memories. I’ll pack more next week. It’s been a bookend to weeks spent here and there, but never completely anywhere. And yet it’s also been a blessedly safe and secure routine that I’ve wholeheartedly loved: returning to my own cosy space after a pair of days at his, a firm reset and turnstile in my Sunday.

But, this is the last time I’ll unpack my bag after a weekend at my boyfriend’s.

Next week, I’ll be unpacking suitcases and boxes and Tesco tote bags and that really-good-sized-box-I-saved-four-months-ago and pockets and other cases, for the next chapter of life, with my boyfriend. This eldest daughter is moving out, at last, again.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up for my last ever Monday working from home at the desk I bought in a hurry when we moved into this house in February 2020. I still remember painstakingly dithering over whether to buy the full set now or be ‘sensible with my money’ and wait until March, eventually feeling so thankful that I did buy the legs for the table before we were plunged into a months-long lockdown. I recorded radio segments during the pandemic from this desk. I quit my job from this desk. I’ve penned hundreds, maybe thousands, of journal entries here. After work, I’ll fight for some kitchen counter space in the family kitchen and then work on my novel while everybody watches EastEnders.

On Thursday, I’ll take my last ever commute back to our family home. It’ll be strange driving a new route to a new home. I’m sure I’ll forget multiple times before my new home sinks in. There’ll be no ceremony of unpacking my office bag properly; I’ll be off again soon. I’ll put my laundry on for the last time in this house, wiggling the door just so, so that it clicks and locks. I’ll dither for ages before putting the wash out to dry. (You know the score.) On Friday morning, I’ll take my last shower at this house after my usual Friday gym session. I’ll smudge SPF on my face before settling down for my final day working from home at the desk I bought in a hurry when we moved into this house in February 2020.

But, on Saturday, I’ll wake up in our home for the very first time. There are endless new routines to puzzle-piece into place. We’ll be unpacking suitcases and boxes and Tesco tote bags and that really-good-sized-box-I-saved-four-months-ago and pockets and other cases. We’ll find safe homes for mugs, for clothes, for trinkets, and for this eldest daughter’s overthinking, anxious, do-it-all mind.

This is the last time I’ll unpack my bag after a weekend at my boyfriend’s.

Leaving home as an eldest daughter is a pick-and-mix paper bag of emotions assaulting me at every turn. Guilt, for finding my feet and moving on to a new chapter of my life without taking care of my siblings and immigrant parents first. Fear, that I’ve been adulting ‘wrong’ somehow, despite caring for my siblings since I was about six years old. Excitement, to pour all of my third parent energy into building a life and home with my love. Anxiety, that I’m a terrible daughter for going it alone.

This is the last time I’ll unpack my bag after a weekend at my boyfriend’s.

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Written sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, Sunday 26 January, 2025 at 7.34pm.