Jonny McCambridge: Driving back home to where I need to be

I should be tired. Instead, as I move along the almost empty motorway, I find that I am unusually alert. My mind is working fast, the thoughts coming quicker than I can process them.

Perhaps it is the quiet and solitary nature of the final part of the journey that leads to a mood of contemplation, of reflection of what I have achieved in my life.

I think about how, as a very young child, I wanted to be a superhero like the ones that I read about in my comic books. Then, when I realised that superheroes who could fly, lift cars and turn invisible didn’t actually exist, I changed course and determined that I would be a sporting superstar, a centre forward for Manchester United or a world champion boxer.

Later in life, as my physical limitations were realised, I altered my focus again. I believed I had some talent for writing (even if nobody else seemed to agree), and this was instead to be the path I would follow.

What did not change was my internal belief that I would leave my mark, that I would achieve something memorable, something which would endure after I am gone.

I notice the sign which tells me that I am coming close to the motorway toll booth. As ever, when I drive south of the border, I have forgotten about the two euros charge. I fish out my wallet and search for change. I have plenty of sterling and US coins, but nothing in the required currency. Eventually, I find a five euro note possibly left over from a long-forgotten holiday in the glove compartment of my car. I pay the cashier and am allowed to proceed once again on my northward journey.

I return to my musings. It is true that I have used my aptitude in writing to build some sort of career as a journalist, a columnist, and as an author.

I managed to publish a book. The reviews were good but the sales low. There are no publishing houses eagerly queuing to order a follow-up.

As a journalist, my ambitions have become tempered over the long number of years working in the profession. It is no longer about seeing how high I can get in the industry. The concentration is more now about trying to balance work with domestic responsibilities and merely getting through the day while keeping it all from falling apart.

Also, in this lonely moment of self-assessment and honesty in the car, I have to admit that I know many journalists who are better than I am. Younger, faster, more assured, better connected. I am the old analogue model bewilderingly trying to make sense of a digital age.

I see the sign for a service station and decide to pull off for a few minutes of rest and respite. I park and stretch my legs. I go into the store with the bright green sign and order a black coffee. I bring the steaming paper cup back outside because I am enjoying the cool and fresh morning air. The sun is beginning to rise, just a promise of colour and brightness in the spaces between the clouds near the horizon at this moment.

I sip at the bitter black liquid, feeling it restore something deep inside me, like a dry plant being watered. I quickly finish the coffee and within 10 minutes I am back on the road and heading towards the border.

To be clear, I am not feeling low. It cannot be said thay my reflections while driving are borne of any sense of self-pity or regret. It is true that I have not achieved what I believed I was capable of as a younger man, but there is no simmering disappointment. Perhaps part of growing older for me, of growing up, is finally admitting that I am ordinary. I will never be exceptional. I will never be the best.

But, as I cross back into Northern Ireland, these contemplative thoughts become diluted, there is something much more pressing to be considered.

I have not seen my family for a week. Apart from when I was incapacitated through mental ill-health, this is the longest period that I have spent separated from my son in his short life.

The impact has been telling. The longer we are apart, the more I can feel the absence burning away at my core, melting away the best parts of me. If I didn’t know it before I am certain now, I cannot function properly without my family around me. I am just part of a person. A husk, with the best stuff removed.

But yet, I know that my wife and son are not at home at this moment. Prior to my departure, in a flurry of order and organisation, it was agreed that the best thing would be for me to secure some undisturbed rest on my return. So, my son and wife are staying overnight at her parent’s house to allow me to go home and get some sleep.

It will not do. The considered plans made a week ago now melt away faster than a snowfall in spring. I cannot allow the agony of separation to last a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. I change course and begin to drive towards the house where my family are sleeping.

It is later in the morning when I finally pull into the driveway. I leap out of the car and knock the door. My wife answers and we share an embrace.

I see my son in the living room before he is aware of my presence. He is still in his pyjamas, sitting on the sofa, concentration focused on a video game. I watch him like this for a few seconds before he notices me.

Then he looks up. The games console is dropped on the floor as he rushes towards me. As he comes close, I see the faintest of trembles in his bottom lip before he leaps into my arms.

I hold him for a long time, rolling my hand through his hair and feeling his short, quick breaths on my neck. I don’t want to let go, feeling that I need to need to make up for a whole week of separation.

‘I missed you daddy,’ he whispers simply.

‘I missed you son,’ I respond, fighting to maintain composure.

We stay like this, his head buried in my chest.

Then, just as I am about to release him, he whispers to me again.

‘Daddy, you’re the best daddy in the world.’

And this time, it is my bottom lip which trembles.