I’m one of the last off the plane. I’m right at the back near the toilets, and everyone is up the second the seat belt sign flicks off, stretching to get their cabin bags, hurrying up to wait.

I’m torn between a desire to push past them to get off this damn aircraft, and a yearning to sink back into the anonymity and safety of the seat that’s had my sore bum on it for nearly ten hours.

As I finally pass the nodding and smiling hostess who thanks me for flying Singapore Air, I quicken my pace, hoist the straps firmly on my shoulders and test out my land legs. The feeling of stretch on my numb calve muscles is exquisite.

I shoot a death stare at the toddler who sat three rows in front of me, whose piercing screams made what could have been a pleasant flight, unbearable. I made a mental note never to have children.

I stride past straggling fellow travellers, both proud of my young strong body and at the same time, sorry for the elderly, the unfit, the overweight ones.

The brightness of the airport dazzles me at first, the duty free shops, the islands of bars and eateries. As I break through customs, my tummy is fluttering. Will she be there to meet here? I almost hope not, so painfully keen am I to see her. I feel awkward and silly.

My eyes scour the faces of the people waiting. My heart drops. She’s not here. That’s ok. I’ll get a train, change at Central to the North Shore.

But then I see her on the outskirts and my throat constricts. Mummy!

She’s craning her neck, wearing jeans and her favourite black t-shirt, the one with a bleach stain on the sleeve, the one she refuses to throw out. She has a ridiculous balloon in her hand. Welcome Home!

We lock eyes. Her chin wobbles. My chin wobbles. Her eyes fill with tears. So do mine. We fall into each others arms and I fight back sobs. Her hug is so tight I think she might crack my ribs.

I’m home!