Humans are remarkable beings, all of us sharing this same Earth as we navigate our lives. Some of us struggle to survive, while others simply exist. One thing about humans has always captivated me: the process of growth — or, more simply, maturity.

Some people develop early, sometimes called “premature,” while others mature later in life, often referred to as “late bloomers,” as the name implies. This intriguing difference is often ignored when we talk about mental health, but I’ve always been fascinated by it. It becomes truly compelling when you stop and really look.

My friends and family all seemed to mature at different paces. From now on, I’ll just use the word maturity instead of developing, since I think it means the same thing. I could be wrong, of course — I’m sure the experts will correct me if I am.

I’ve always been a quiet observer, watching them transform into young adults. One school friend even became the youngest lieutenant in the defence force, which is a huge accomplishment. I watched them get married, become parents, and blossom into wonderful adults.

It was impressive… but not nearly as enjoyable as being invited to all those dinners and barbecues.

While the dads discussed cars, boats, politics, and complex financial things that sailed straight over my head, I’d be outside on the lawn playing with the kids. And by playing, I don’t mean being a human horse or donkey like you see on TV. I mean real playing — hide-and-seek, ring-around-the-rosie, and spooky room.

When the moms called “dinner,” I’d run in, grab my plate, and eat with my young friends. I found comfort in their company, and I knew — and still know — that they enjoyed mine too.

Life, as it does, marched on.

My young friends matured, transitioned into adulthood, graduated, and eventually became parents themselves. You know, the classic American dream: a dad, a mom, a boy, a girl, a dog, a house, carpools, and ever-present nosy neighbours.

My childhood friends transformed into grandmothers practically overnight, their once-intricate conversations reduced to something I couldn’t understand — like Morse code. The wives, however, would nod sagely. I suspect it was mostly the gin and wine doing the talking.

Every birth brought an invitation, which always filled me with delight. It was a bit like Mr Bean, you know?

“Oh what fun it is to play with my kid friends on the lawn!”

Indeed. Let’s sing along. Eat, play, and love.

Then, almost suddenly, they were all grown up.

They lost interest in the games we used to play, and although I was happy for them, I missed the innocent fun we’d shared. Our conversations changed. The topics shifted. And I found myself standing just outside the circle, no longer part of their inner world.

Still, I wouldn’t trade those days for anything.

Those memories — the laughter and the silliness — are like a warm blanket now.

I suppose that’s partly why I married a much younger woman. By “young,” I mean the kind who raises an eyebrow when we meet someone. The real reason, though, is simple: she told me early on that she didn’t want children. And at my age, having kids wasn’t really an option anyway.

Besides… all my friends were essentially kids already.

What’s the point of having children when you already have so many “kid” friends?

And because I’m a writer, they’re always impressed when I show them my book covers or read parts of my stories. I even chase them around our big garden with ice cream, while my wife watches nearby, making sure no one trips over their own excitement.

My wife — who is much younger than me — keeps me grounded. It works because I’m a bit of a late bloomer. Even at my age, I can keep up with her.

No, not in that way, you old fool.

I mean running.

We connect on a level I haven’t often seen in others. Most of my old friends are divorced now, and I know some of them quietly disapprove of my happy marriage. My younger, now-grown friends have also been through divorces. Educated as they are, they talk about things I don’t understand — or particularly care about.

But I always make new friends.

That’s a perk of being a little immature, I suppose. Bet you didn’t know that was a thing.

I can ride bikes with them, rollerblade, and play catch by the river. And they all love ice cream — especially the peanut butter kind my wife makes. It’s soft and fluffy, like a small edible cloud.

When their moms come to fetch them, I get a hug too, warm and kind and familiar, the sort that reminds you the world isn’t such a terrible place after all.

My wife and I also make plans. Spontaneously.

The other day she asked if I wanted to go to the beach.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll grab my board.”

She laughed. “I thought you’d say that.”

It turned out she’d already bought me a new one — a longboard with a sunset painted on the bottom. She knew I’d been eyeing them.

The young ones… and my wife… they’re like that. They somehow know what you want before you do, and they help you find your way there.

A wistful sigh escapes me.

I imagine the audience for these words is composed of thoughtful, educated adults seeking understanding. Yes — a human, an adult, to be precise, is the one writing this.

I hold a degree in editing and journalism from what the grown-ups in the States call an Ivy League university. I’m a published author with seven titles to my name and an eighth nearing completion. I’ve written four children’s books and a young adult novel that received five-star reviews. By day, I’m a technical writer for a Fortune 500 company.

I can write copy, features, technical documents, fiction — fiction especially, across many genres.

Awards don’t interest me. I give them to my kid friends instead, along with any other little trophies life hands me. Wealth, status, and comparisons to literary giants — Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Angela Carter, Terry Pratchett — hold no sway over me.

I feel like an adult with a child’s heart.

My friends are my kids, and we play together on our estate. I eat sweets while hanging out with my buddies, and my wife watches with a loving smile. I play cricket on the lawn, cheering when I catch the ball or take a wicket.

I’m fit enough to keep up with children at primary school.

I wake each day full of energy, jump out of bed, and rush to greet the morning. I watch the clock, waiting for the school bell, and I can already hear my friends laughing as they draw closer.

I get ridiculously excited when my wife gives me ice cream, or puts fish fingers and chips on my plate — or baked fish with peas and mash — or, even better, bangers and mash.

Yum. My mouth is already watering.

I’m completely smitten with my wife. I blow her kisses and wink at her constantly. I still blush when she gets ready for a bath or shower. Seeing her in her nightgown makes me melt.

I sneak glances at her as she drifts off to sleep. Even when she’s just feeding the dog, I catch myself staring.

She’s unbearably beautiful to me.

I never get enough of her. I never will.

Unlike many adults, I understand myself — and I’m proud of it.

I also understand where it comes from.

My upbringing plays a role: no father figure, constant moving, never quite settling. That explains the circumstances, but not the whole story.

The deeper truth is that I lived in denial for a very long time, never progressing to acceptance.

My father vanished when I was two. No one ever found him, despite many attempts. Ironically, I’ve had the most success in uncovering fragments of his story. I know things now — quiet truths — that are difficult to explain.

Recently, I felt anger toward him for the first time. Real anger. The kind that shakes your bones. It almost broke me.

It had been sleeping inside me my whole life.

Perhaps, with the time I have left, I’ll finally mature into a true adult.

Time will tell.

For now, I rest my cheek against the cool windowpane and wait.

I wonder when the school bell will ring again, its sound echoing down empty halls.

I miss my friends.

A wistful sigh.