Freshers� week is a big adventure for new students. But Gina Dunnett, whose two sons leave home for good this month, can�t help dreading the empty nest

IN a couple of weeks both my sons will leave home For 22 years my attention has been centred on them. Not entirely: I've worked in numerous posts at various levels, taken training courses and developed friendships and hobbies. But my children have been my priority, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

From baby to adulthood, the years have flown by. A week after the birth of my first boy, an elderly neighbour watched as I took my new-born out for a walk in the pram. "He'll be off to the school soon," she remarked, a knowing look in her eye. I thought that glint indicated madness. Full-time education was five long years away. But of course, she was right. My children's infancy passed by in a whirlwind of feeding, fun, fears and finding out. Before I knew it, the parting process had begun.

First came playgroup, which soon morphed into nursery. We struck it lucky. Both boys enjoyed the experience and this level of separation was manageable. But then came the big one - school.

My older boy's initial weeks were bumpy. The cosy days of nursery hugs and individual attention were replaced by the world of crowded cloakrooms, open-plan classrooms and the harsh realities of the playground.

My boy wasn't happy and neither was I. For my not-quite-yet-five-year-old and me the system didn't work. So, with the help of the school, we adapted it. For a week or two I accompanied him through the cloakroom crush to the classroom and left once he was settled - usually only a matter of minutes. It worked.

Chatting to son number two, I discover that neither of us remembers any separation anxiety worthy of note as he followed in his brother's footsteps. Seems it's often that way.

Alone for a while, I developed new routines, worked extra hours, found a few precious "me" moments, always aware that the hungry hordes would be back before long, enlivening the place and making the house a family home. Meanwhile, my boys sped through the nativity plays and sports days of early education, arriving all too soon at high school. I didn't dwell on thoughts of future, more permanent separation but they were there, somewhere.

In 2004, my older son left for university. Anticipating all eventualities, we crammed computers, cases, clothes and countless boxes into the apparently shrunken car. Next, in went son number two. On top of him we piled pots and pans, bedding and rucksacks. Finally, with the TV perched on son number one's knee and his guitar leaning against his legs, we were off.

My boy liked his spartan new room in halls. We helped him unpack, put up a few posters, kissed him good-bye. As we drove away, we saw him striding around the campus, eagerly exploring his new environment. He didn't notice us leave. Arriving home, his absence was immediately tangible, while he was not. I wept.

This summer that young man graduated with a 2:1 in film and media with history. There couldn't have been a prouder mother in the audience as he strode across the stage to be capped by Dame Diana Rigg. He has returned home briefly but moves out to a flat with his girlfriend later this month and with the reality of rent, food and other bills looming large, he's taken a bar job to earn some cash. Next year, fingers crossed, he'll start a teacher-training course.

My "baby" has just turned 18. Final exams have been sat and good results achieved. Shortly, he begins a university course in computer science. And in a few weeks' time, we will drive north to where another room in another hall of residence awaits. As number one son won't yet have flown the nest with his girlfriend, he's coming with us, so I won't return alone. But I suspect I will weep.

At the moment, my sons' CDs, DVDs, games consoles, laptops, guitars, clothes and piles of papers are strewn about our home. Most of the boys' childhood playthings have long since gone but favourite soft toys nestle in unexpected places. Several packed boxes stand in stacks ready for the off. I try not to imagine how empty the house will become. And how silent. I'm sure they will leave bits and pieces behind to remind me they were here but they'll take the important things, the essence of who they are now, with them.

The world holds out its hand and quite rightly they grab it. But am I ready to let them go?

Are we ever?

There is no question that I will let them go. With the Lebanese poet and artist Kahlil Gibran I believe that I am the bow from which the arrow goes forth, that our children are not our children, "They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you." I know all of this. Yet despite my boys' desire to tread their own paths in the world, despite the joy I see in their eyes as they explore new landscapes, despite my delight at their many successes, I feel sad at the passing of their youth, at the ending of the closeness of our shared lives.

Our years together have been happy. The breakdown of my marriage caused a few waves but the three of us have maintained a strong relationship and we love each other dearly. We've had our share of teenage moments, rather more from them than from me although I dare say I've contributed a few, but we've pulled through, no less fond of each other for all our foibles. Without at least one of them beside me day by day, who will I be and what will I do?

I remember years ago chatting with a chum as we pushed our offspring in their buggies. We discussed the changes motherhood had brought and spoke of getting things "sorted". Although no longer young, we are still the best of friends but we've given up on "sorting things", on getting them "back to normal". Life is a process of adaptation and this time calls for it big style, as I discover where I will go from here.

Work-wise, I already have several identities: tutor, writer, administrator, information person. I've plans to develop my freelance work, to write and publish more, and I've an inkling I'd like to travel. Are these pipe dreams or dormant realities waiting for me to breathe life into them?

Perhaps I'll move house. This home was bought for several reasons, not least that it's five minutes walk from my sons' school - hardly a consideration now. One thing's for sure, wherever I am, the boys will be welcome. Minus my sons, which of my habits will remain as they are, even for a short while?

Without my younger boy to discuss it with, will I still watch Dragons' Den? I guess I'll find out soon. My best option is to go with the flow, taking each day as it comes. Hostage to complex, conflicting emotions, I'll help my sons leave, lend a hand loading and unloading their luggage, deliver them to their destinations and wish them the best that life can offer.

They have brought me untold joy, and no matter how far they roam, I will love them forever. And at the edges of my awareness that question dances: what will it be like after they've gone?