I don’t feel guilty. Well, not exactly.

I didn’t feel guilty when he didn’t know I was going to leave him.

But now, he squirms when we drive up to the school, nervous and clingy. The longer I stay, the harder it is. I run away the moment he turns his back, dash to the car with my jacket pulled up over my head like it's my first courthouse appearance.

I’m a pragmatist. I don’t entertain melodramatic abandonment theories or notions of emotional trauma. I don’t believe that unaccompanied circle time will crush his spirit or cause him to resent me for life. It’s healthy to mix things up, give him a chance to find his own feet in the world. Surrounded by colour and vibrancy and structure and songs and cheerful encouragement, all generated by others in a mama-vacuum.

I believe it’s more important to be thankful: thankful that I don’t have to leave him there five days a week. When he's ready, I'll have two full days of dedicated working time, a reliable timeslot to bring in much-needed income. And he gets a whole new roomful of toys and two playgrounds.

Win-win, right? Right. As soon as a stranger-for-hire changes his barfy shirt post-mamaleftmeagain freakout, he’ll have a wonderful time.

On this fourth morning of playschool, I do the same as for the past three: come home, shower, write for therapy and wait for 11:30. So I can sneak up on him from behind a bush and watch him, happy, unknowing. Playing and toddling and fending for himself with confidence.

That’s how I know it’s going to be okay.