By Fiona Walker
THEY say that ‘sorry’ is the hardest word. Well, that’s a load of rubbish.
Sorry is a precious word. It promises new beginnings, forgiveness, an end to acrimony and bitterness. It is a salve, and can promote peace and harmony, while constructing a barrier between past mistakes and new awareness. It brings reconciliation, unity and opportunity. Sorry acknowledges where we have gone wrong and our desire to do better in the future.
It is indeed a powerful little word, but sorry is not the hardest word.
Last week I had to say goodbye to some of those people dearest to me in the whole world. My younger son has lived in Jersey for his entire life. He has always loved his home and is immensely proud of this island, but along with so many other young people today, he has finally abandoned any hope of being able to buy his own home in Jersey. The cost of living locally and a desire to experience a rural lifestyle further prompted his decision to leave his place of birth and relocate to the UK with his wife and small son.
I accept that, for many, there are far greater divides than the English Channel and a long motorway drive. My nephew emigrated to Australia with his family, and I’ve twice witnessed my sister’s anguish; firstly, when her family moved to the other side of the world and again when Covid enforced a prolonged separation from her adored grandchildren. At least my little family remains accessible.
My daughter-in-law and grandson planned to leave Jersey a day earlier than my son, and to avoid overly upsetting their five-year-old, his parents decided that there should be no emotional goodbyes at the Airport; instead, they would drop by earlier in the day. And so, my final farewell to my bright, beautiful, livewire grandson came and went all too quickly, in the warm sunshine of a spring afternoon. As I hugged him tightly, trying to imprint the feel of his little body on my consciousness, memories of this adored boy who has been a regular part of my life for the past five years flooded through my mind: the premature baby dwarfed by even the tiniest of infant clothes; the inquisitive toddler investigating – and emptying – every cupboard in the kitchen; the joyous explorer, the daredevil climber, the dinosaur expert, the dishevelled pupil flinging himself into my arms with a shriek of delight whenever I collected him from school. It wasn’t until that moment that the full realisation of what I was going to miss truly hit home.
With tears in our eyes, my lovely daughter-in-law and I simply hugged one another; we were both too choked up for words. And then they were gone.
A few hours later, I watched from my bedroom window as their flight lifted into the sky and, as if knowing the importance of the occasion, the pilot carved a semicircle above the bay in front of our home, so I could watch the plane for the longest time possible before it disappeared on its flightpath to the UK. As I imagined an entranced face pressed against the window and the excitement of a little boy going on a big adventure, my eyes filled and tears spilled down my cheeks. It wasn’t until later that I learned their flight had been delayed, and my emotional outpouring was aimed at the wrong aircraft.
In a car packed as precariously as the Flintstones’ Cavemobile, my son queued for the car ferry the following morning. Before an equally emotional goodbye at the Harbour, he explained the point at which he and his wife had given up their search for a home of their own in Jersey. After saving for several years for a deposit, they had, last year, finally found a suitable property within their budget. Moving quickly, they made an offer and were thrilled when it was accepted. After that they incurred the usual – painful – expenses of legal fees and a survey. And then came the devastating news that a developer had stepped in and made a last-minute offer, 20% above the agreed price. It was too good for the vendor to refuse, and so the only victims in this whole scenario were my son and daughter-in-law.
With their savings depleted by the expenses they had sustained, another young professional couple decided their only opportunity to own their own property would mean moving away from Jersey. Today they are settling into a new home and new lifestyle in Cumbria.
And that is how I learned that the hardest word of all is goodbye.
