It wasn’t until the very instant I beheld the tiny jellybean that would become Robin snugly nestled in my uterus, the momentous occasion of our first ultrasound, I could see myself as a mother. To care for another creature with the intensity that’s needed to care for one’s own children didn’t seem like something I was capable of. I didn’t (and still don’t, honestly) see myself as altruistic enough for mustering that amount of unlimited patience and care. On the pragmatic side, I simply dreaded the responsibility. The loss of freedom. The loss of solitude, a critical commodity for a loner like me. It was thanks to you, for you, and most of all, with you, that I changed my mind.  As someone with a much greater capability for caring and multitasking and an infinitely more social constitution, I knew you’d take on at least half of the burden and be a doting father.

I was right on all counts. You were devoted to the point of still wanting to tie Robin’s shoelaces when she was ten and I struggled with combining my newborn maternal dedication and the preservation of a minuscule sliver of freedom. You saw my struggle and helped me as much as you could, stepping in to guard my space, taking over with ease. News of a father unable to be alone with his children because they were too much for him we’d contemplate with pity and a hint of disdain. Your talent for caring, for our children and me, was of vital importance to me. But then you decided to leave. You left me to raise our two daughters alone, and to execute all our plans without you. This was not the deal we made.

Last month, after vacating our house, we had nowhere to go. We couldn’t go to America yet and no longer had a home in the Netherlands. Without children, this unpredictable situation would have been infinitely easier to deal with. I had prompted the school in America to expect Robin and Leone at the start of the school year. At first, I had to delay their arrival a few weeks, but when my visa still hadn’t shown any signs of materializing at the time of our move, I had to come up with a serious plan B. So we headed back to Ibiza, to let the girls spend a trimester in a school they already knew from the time we lived here as an unbroken family, and to stay in the house that had been our home before.

As always, the island has welcomed us, and Ibiza defies the definition Plan B, but not going to the US now presents me with another dilemma. Since the initial plan had been to go for one schoolyear, what do I do? Do I extend the time in the US into the following schoolyear? This means I squander any possibilities for the kids to go back to their excellent and wonderful school in Holland. Should I just let them finish this schoolyear on Ibiza and forget about the US altogether? I know I will always regret this. Had I been alone, these crushing doubts would have been non-existent. Others would have risen, probably, but they would not have had such grave consequences for others than myself. My dependents. The legal language concerning the visa says it clearly. Los Angeles will be our home, even if it turns out to be for only half a school year. I’ve chosen not to look beyond that. Who can say what this shifty world will look like in six months anyway?

Education is a substantial, but by no means the only obstacle in our untethered teenage household. The interests are often conflicting and they seem to change color every week. If one is adoring the idea of living in the US, the other is sure to feel despondent for leaving behind her friends and beloved school. The worst is, I understand her qualms all too well. Before, at least she had some kind of picture of what she was leaving them for, now she doesn’t even have that anymore. As soon as my visa comes into sight, the America-loving daughter suddenly gets cold feet as well. “What if it’s not what I hoped it would be?” she asks me in an unsteady voice. You and I, we might have been two captains on a ship, which is not always considered an ideal situation. Now, I’m on my own, navigating tricky and changeable waters. I wouldn’t mind having to bicker with you over the right course to take.

There’s no one to take over the rudder anymore. Not here in Ibiza, not back in Holland and not when we will finally touch down on Californian soil. Sure, family or friends can step in for an evening or a day, perhaps even a weekend, to keep our girls company and make sure they go to school and get fed. But taking over, assuming the full responsibility for their lives, is now my task, and mine alone. The only one who could assist me in that was you. All decisions are exclusively mine, and so are the teenage anger and angst. When the hormones raging in Leone’s body make her want to shout or sneer at someone, I am her sole target. Well, and, to a certain extent, her sister. But I am the only one she can rebel against, ignore or recoil from when I try to touch her.

Sometimes I feel like a boxing ball, and I want to scream with exasperation. I do. At times I just want to run away. Flee the responsibility that I was so hesitant to accept in the first place. But way more often I feel like a failure. I should be imperturbed and patient, our girl needs a steady adult in this turbulent time of her life. Instead, I get angry when she stares at her phone for hours on end and let her snide remarks get to me. A single parent is not something I ever expected or wished to be. In my adolescence this scenario literally featured in my worst nightmares. I guess I am getting hard lessons in responsibility, among other things.  A few days ago, I came across an article that compared the stage of puberty to a time of release for the parents, to be accompanied by a feeling that’s very similar to lovesickness or grief. So it seems my mourning process is not quite over yet; I’ve lost you, and now I’m losing my children as well.

You left me at the onset of their teenage years, a stormy era. Ironically, you also left me at a time where we could see more freedom dawning on the horizon, and more time to spend on and with each other, thanks to the increasing independence of our babies. This is a time when the claims of parenthood start to relax when it comes to the direct, everyday care. At the same time, so much is happening, it dizzies me and sometimes I feel I can’t keep up with our rapidly evolving daughters. With you by my side, we would’ve lagged behind together, laughed about their adoration for Marvel characters and their conviction of knowing everything, and this particularly farewell would have not been so damn lonely.

Reconstructing my life would undoubtedly have been easier without children. But despite all the struggles, the complications that come with emigrating, moving, trying to accomplish any big change with schoolchildren in my wake, I am devastatingly grateful for my companions. Our daughters are wild, autonomous and multifaceted. I am blinded by their brilliance. At times they enrage and exhaust me, but much more often than that, they lift me up, inspire and teach me.

Wise beyond their years, they know and see me better than anyone else. More and more they appear next to me at the helm, and I realize I am not alone. We are three.