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Carl Jung set down this sentence in the 1950s, late in his working life, when the bulk of his clinical practice and his major theoretical work was already behind him.
The loneliest moment in midlife, for many people, does not arrive on a holiday.
The parent is talking.
On Saturday morning, Margaret stands at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee that has gone cold while she was looking at her phone.
By the mid-1990s, somewhere between half and two-thirds of American kids in elementary and middle school were spending part of their afternoons unsupervised, depending on which study you trusted and what exactly you counted as supervision.
I sat in the rental car for ten minutes at the end of my father's road last weekend, engine off, hands on the wheel, unable to make myself drive.
It is a Sunday evening in London, and my father is sitting in his usual chair, in his usual living room, with the news on at a volume slightly too loud.
I drove to my parents' house last summer for a long weekend, and somewhere on the second day I noticed something I'd been not-noticing for about thirty years.
I want to tell you about a specific Sunday in 2018, in my parents' kitchen in London.
When people talk about the gulf between adult children and their boomer parents, they usually frame it as a story about cruelty, or coldness, or some failure of empathy on one side or the other.
The cousin called on a Tuesday.
I have noticed, over a long time, that there is a twenty-minute limit on the kind of conversation I can have alone in a room with my father.
