When moving away is harder for the dad than for the child

The other day, I was overcome by a feeling I'd never experienced before. I was sad because my son had lost someone. At forty, nothing really comes as an emotional surprise anymore. All emotions are merely variations on those you've experienced before. The pain of separation. Anger because your partner used your toothbrush. Anger over the tax return. Anger at the neighbour who's renovating his flat on a Sunday.

Basically, at the age of forty, you're nothing but anger in various stages. And then you have children and experience feelings that are as fresh and vibrant as they were back when you last felt truly alive: during puberty.

Even the celebrity chef campaign is to no avail

In this case, it was my son's best friend, who had moved to another town with his family. The two of them went to nursery together, and before that they'd both attended the local crèche in our neighbourhood. And afterwards, they'd play together in the playground. We became friends with his parents, who are friendly, open-minded people, so we could invite them round for a meal without worrying about having to spend the whole evening talking about children's illnesses.

When her father told me half a year ago that they were planning to move away, I immediately said I would do everything in my power to stop them. «Well, that leaves you and my mother-in-law – that's two of you already,» he said. In the end, I simply cooked for them regularly. But despite – or perhaps because of – my Ottolenghi campaign, they ended up moving away the other day.

They saw each other almost every day for four years. At regular intervals, they trashed our bedroom and drew pictures in my first editions.

«Go on, catch me!»

The farewell was sad, like all farewells. It was a rainy morning; the sky was overcast and grey. We arranged to meet at our playground, where the two of them had spent so much time together. They were the only children there that morning. Just like in a gloomy Tarkovsky film, they sat side by side on the swing, ran through the sand, and climbed up the slide, the third rung of which had been broken in the middle for years. They played tag and hide-and-seek. «Come and catch me!» «Where are you?»

At the age of six and a half, friendships don't yet have the incredible intensity they can have a few years later. My son and his best friend haven't sworn brotherhood. They've never gone camping together or kept a secret diary (as far as I know, anyway). But they've seen each other almost every day for four years. They've regularly trashed our bedroom and drawn pictures in my first editions. They were best friends. And when we said goodbye, we were all aware that something was coming to an end.

First, everything happens for the first time. And then it happens for the last time. Yet even these final times feel like premieres, and you simply don't know how to behave.

It was still early in the morning when we walked back to our flat. It had stopped raining, but the streets were deserted. My son walked alongside me, lost in thought. Then he started to run. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at me in surprise.

«Dad? Why are you crying?»

«Because the ice-cream parlour's closed.»