Days here, at my parents house, go at an even slower pace. We wake up whenever Moa wakes up, which goes from eight to ten o'clock, depending on the day. We make breakfast, eat on the terrace, and walk down the street to the beach, usually in time for Moa's first nap.

She sleeps with Graeme in the carrier, and we walk along the sunny shore. This year there are a lot of tourists here, more than other years, but I don't mind it. We stop, I leave our basket far enough from the water that comes in with the waves, and I get into the sea. I swim, and swim, and swim. I swim looking at the horizon, and at the castle faraway, as if there was nobody else other than me in the water. I swim like it is the last time I will get to do it. I dive, open my eyes under the water, watching the little fish that go unnoticed for most people, and I come back up to float on my back, playing to align with the horizon the tan mark that the sandals leave on the top of my feet.

I tend to do that, these days, when I'm doing something I love. I try to be as present as I can, enjoying every second, until the time with myself is over and it transitions again into time with her. I value so much these moments I used to take for granted, they have acquired a completely new meaning. Like sitting here, with a brownie Graeme just baked, and a cup of coffee, writing this. And as much as I love both, this dichotomy between one and another, these are the moments that bring me back to my center, to my own self.