23. Eden
Eden
Nobody warns you about the dread of the diaper bag. It’s not even about the diapers, really—it’s about how, three months into this experiment called “parenthood,” your entire identity can be compressed into a single, overstuffed canvas rectangle.
I used to measure my worth in gallons of paint. Now it’s about how efficiently I can stock this bag to survive any and all apocalyptic scenarios, up to and including an outbreak of norovirus in the Denver suburbs.
Today, the bag is heavier than usual. I’ve packed enough wipes and rash cream to preserve Olivia’s arse through a nuclear winter, plus a half-dozen “emergency snacks” for myself, and a backup onesie for each of us.
Sloane claims this is overkill, but Sloane also once left the house without her wallet, keys, or shoes, so her logistical opinions are dead to me.
Granted, it was post-baby and she was running on two hours’ worth of sleep, but still.
This is my first solo outing with the baby since we brought her home.
The plan is to drive across town to my parents’ place, park Olivia in a Moses basket, and let her be doted on by two overqualified, underchallenged grandparents while I—what?
Nap in a corner? Try to remember what silence sounds like?
The point is to give Sloane a day off, and by “day” I mean “two hours, three if no one starts crying,” but still. She’s earned it.
I kiss her goodbye at the door. She’s got Olivia balanced on one arm and her phone in the other, scrolling through what I hope are group chat memes and not some new anxiety-provoking parenting blog.
Olivia is in a phase where every time she sees Sloane’s face she makes this “o” shape with her mouth, like she’s perpetually impressed. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to win that look.
“Don’t do anything illegal,” Sloane says, handing over the goblin, ruffling my hair as if I’m a border collie and not her wife.
“No promises,” I reply, shouldering the diaper bag and trying to ignore the fact that it’s cutting off circulation to my right arm.
I get halfway to the car before realising I forgot the baby.
I did not actually forget the baby—she’s strapped to my chest in one of those ergonomic slings, but for a solid twenty seconds I can’t find her among all the pouches and buckles and nearly have a panic attack before realising she’s just tucked her head in like a turtle. Good start, Eden.
The drive is uneventful, which is how you want all drives to be when your passenger’s neck can’t support her own skull.
I play the radio at whisper volume, mostly to drown out my own nerves. It’s only after I park in my parents’ driveway that I realise how rare it is to be alone with my own thoughts these days, and how quickly my brain rushes to fill the vacuum with random trivia and dread.
I lug the diaper bag and the baby to the front door. I consider kicking it open in a dramatic fashion, but that would require bending at the knees, which I can’t do unless I want to launch the baby like a forward-facing catapult.
My mum answers, as always, with a mug of tea in one hand and a slightly judgmental eyebrow raised.
“Eden, love!” she says, making a show of opening her arms wide and then narrowing them slightly when she remembers the baby. “And my Olivia! You clever girl, look at you—already chunking up.”
I hand over the infant, who is immediately snuggled in a fleece blanket and paraded around the living room like the world’s tiniest prize pig.
Mum mutters endearments at her, and Olivia responds by attempting to eat her own foot. There’s no greater compliment in this house.
My dad appears, having heard the commotion, and immediately starts monologuing about the state of the tomatoes this year and the way climate change has ruined the soil.
How Rock and Roll.
We settle into the kitchen, which smells like burnt toast and the ghost of a hundred teas. My mum plops Olivia into her Moses basket and fusses over her for a good five minutes, as if a single misaligned swaddle will give the baby permanent neck damage.
Once she’s satisfied, she offers me a chair and a mug, which I accept because I have been trained since birth to never refuse tea, even if you are currently bleeding out on the floor.
We make small talk for a while—how’s Sloane, how’s work, why don’t you have a will yet—all the usual hits.
But the whole time, there’s a weird tension in the air.
Like, instead of a normal Tuesday, I’ve stumbled into a surprise intervention or a highly rehearsed prank.
My parents keep glancing at each other, and my dad keeps clearing his throat as if he’s preparing to recite something in Latin.
Finally, after Mum refills my mug for the third time, they both go quiet. My dad takes off his glasses and polishes them, a sure sign that the next words out of his mouth will either be profound or deeply embarrassing.
“Eden,” he starts, “we need to talk to you about something.”
The phrase freezes my internal organs, but I keep my face blank. “Um, okay.”
Mum then clears her throat and takes my dad’s hand. I’m starting to panic. They’re about to tell me one of them is sick, or my gran has cancer again.
“We’ve decided,” she says, drawing the words out like she’s testing them for sharp edges, “that we’re going back to England.”
I blink. “For a holiday, or…”
“Not a holiday,” she says, voice soft. “We’re moving back. For good.”
There’s a moment where I wonder if I’ve lost track of time, like maybe it’s April Fools and I’m the punchline. But my parents aren’t pranksters, and besides, the way my dad is gripping his mug suggests this is serious.
I set my own mug down, because if I don’t, I’m going to shatter it. “You’re…moving? Like, as in, selling the house and everything?”
Dad nods. “The market’s good. And we’re…well, we’re not getting any younger, are we?”
This is true. Although they’re only in their late forties. Perks of having kids young. By the time they’re grown you still have a life.
“Why now?” I ask, and it comes out sharper than I intended.
Mum shrugs, but there’s a tremor in her shoulders. “We’ve been talking about it for ages. And now that you and Sloane have Olivia, you’re a proper family. You don’t need us hovering.”
Hilarious after the past ten years of Mum doing exactly that!
“You’re good now, E. Bella and the gang will have your back. I…Gran and Grandad are getting older now, and I’d like to have the best years with them. We’re in a position where we can retire early and that’s what we want to do. Also, I think Jenna needs us more than you nowadays, kiddo.”
I should have seen this coming, really. All the signs have been there, but I’ve been so baby-focused and exhausted I never really put the puzzle pieces together.
I almost laugh. “So this is…what? You’re firing yourselves as parents, as grandparents?”
Mum smiles, but her eyes are wet. “No, love. Just…time for the next act, I suppose.”
I glance at Olivia, who is sleeping through her own abandonment, and try to process what the hell this means.
My parents are my safety net. Not in a “call for money or bail” way—more like, if the world suddenly stops making sense, I can always come home and be the child again. Now, the idea of home is about to be put in a shipping container and sent across the Atlantic.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit, which is the first honest thing I’ve said all day.
My dad gets up and comes around the table. He stands awkwardly for a moment, then wraps his arms around my shoulders, solid and sure.
“It’s not forever,” he says. “We’ll visit. You’ll visit. And you’ll have a place to stay when you finally get sick of American cheese.”
I snort, despite myself. “I give it six months before you miss Mexican food and come crawling back.”
Mum laughs, but the sound is thick. “We love you, darling. That’s not going anywhere.”
I let them hold me. I let myself feel small, just for a minute. Then I pull away and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt, because that’s what you do when you’re thirty-something and pretending to be a grown-up.
We spend the rest of the visit pretending nothing has changed, but everything has. When I load the baby and the bag back into the car, my parents stand on the porch and wave like they’re seeing me off to university.
It’s only as I pull away that I realise what I really want to do is turn around and tell them not to go, that I still need them, even if I’m never going to say it out loud.
I drive home in a fog, Olivia snoring gently in her seat. My phone buzzes with a text.
Sloane
Survived solo time. No casualties. Hope u r ok.
I don’t reply because I need time to figure out how to break the news. Or maybe, just maybe, time to convince myself it’s not the end of the world, even if it sort of feels like it.
I’m back at my parents’ house a few days later because Sloane really appreciated some time to wash her body without keeping it under five minutes.
I’m good with it because I need to talk to my parents some more.
I still haven’t told Sloane the news because I still can’t process it.
She’s going to be so pissed when I come clean.
I’m still running the whole “we’re moving back to England” bombshell through my grey matter when Mum pours me yet another cup of tea, this one so strong it could dissolve a spoon. Her hands are shaking, which is either nerves or early-onset caffeine toxicity.
“You know we’ll ring every day, love,” she says, as if this is the era of the landline and not a world of constant, intrusive FaceTime. “And we’ll do proper video calls for Olivia, so she doesn’t forget the sound of her nana’s voice.”
I stare at the tea. “I think she’s more likely to remember the song you made up about baby farts.”
Mum grins, briefly, and for a second I almost forgive her.
Then the guilt floods in, as it always does, and I try to imagine what my life will look like without her hovering in the background, sending links to BBC World News articles with alarming headlines or asking if Sloane’s still “a bit peaky” after every cold.
Dad is sitting at the end of the table, hands folded over a folder labelled, “Financials—UK.” He keeps opening his mouth to say something, then closing it, which is not at all like him.
He’s the kind of guy who narrates every thought in real time, especially if he thinks it will make you uncomfortable.
When he finally speaks, it’s with all the subtlety of a rockslide.
“We’re not abandoning you,” he declares loudly. “You’re not a child. You’re a mum now. A bloody brilliant one, at that.”
I roll my eyes, which is the only defence mechanism I have left. “Yeah, well, some days I’m just hanging on by my cuticles.”
Dad gives a big, braying laugh, which seems to put him back in his element. “That’s parenting, love. You and Sloane are doing great. Better than your mum and I did, that’s for sure.”
I want to argue, but instead I look at Olivia, who has somehow managed to wriggle halfway out of her basket and is making a weird snorting sound that means either “hungry” or “about to explode diaper.” Even three months in, I still have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing which.
Mum wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand, pretending to brush away a crumb.
“It’s not forever, E. If you hate it, or if you need us, we’ll come back. Or we’ll fly you over. You’ll get to have a European holiday every year. Take Olivia to see the King.”
I snort. “Yeah, like we’re going to get an audience with His Maj just because you’re a post-retirement expat.”
Dad perks up. “I’ll bet you five pounds the King is less scary than Olivia when she’s teething.”
There’s a pause, and then I start laughing. It comes out sharp and brittle, but it’s laughter. Mum joins in, then Dad, and suddenly it’s like any other family dinner, everyone pretending they’re not terrified out of their skulls.
“So what then?” I say, after the giggles subside. “You move to a cottage in Seahouses and live off local cheese and cider, and I just…FaceTime you when the baby has a rash?”
Mum squeezes my hand. “We’ll visit. And you’ll visit. We’ll help out as much as we can, even if it’s just over the computer.”
Dad looks at me with that peculiar blend of pride and exasperation he usually reserves for lost luggage or Premier League scandals. “You’ve got this, Eden. You and Sloane. The two of you could raise a small army and do a better job than we ever did.”
Mum rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “He’s not wrong, you know.”
I want to say, “You’re not supposed to leave. You’re supposed to stay and be my backup plan. My safety net.” Instead I say nothing. I let them finish their fantasy of rural English life—sheep in the fields, tiny pubs, the smell of the sea.
We talk about logistics for a while. Dad’s got multiple spreadsheets, and Mum is already stress-baking about how she’ll fit all her plants into a checked bag. They argue about whether Tesco is better than Waitrose, as if this is a pressing family issue and not a sign of creeping madness.
When it’s time to go, Mum wraps me and Olivia in a hug so tight I feel my ribs creak.
“Don’t wait too long to visit,” she whispers. “And tell Sloane we love her.”
Dad bear hugs me. “You’ll be fine, love,” he says, softer than before.
On the drive home, Olivia gurgles in her car seat, oblivious to the gaping wound in my chest. I glance at her in the mirror and try to imagine her first steps, first words, first Christmas—all happening without my parents nearby. It feels wrong. But it’s happening regardless.
I pull into our driveway and just sit there for a minute, breathing. My phone rings.
“Hey, babe. Do you want to order pizza? Or do you want to eat actual food?”
“Pizza. And wine. And about seventeen pints of ice cream.” I laugh.
When I carry Olivia inside, the house is still and warm, and Sloane is waiting at the kitchen table, hair up, glasses smudged, laptop open to some half-finished email. She looks up and grins, but there’s an edge of worry in her eyes.
“How was it?” she asks, setting down her work.
I set Olivia in her basket and collapse into the chair next to Sloane. For a second, I’m tempted to play it cool, to make a joke, but instead I just let my head drop onto her shoulder and sigh.
“My parents are moving,” I say, voice muffled. “Like, for real. To England.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she hugs me, and it’s exactly what I need.
“Wow.” Sloane sighs. “Guess we’ll have to step up our international travel game, huh?”
I nod, and for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Just the beginning of a new one.
Maybe, if we’re lucky, the pizza will help.