You’re back living at home. You just turned thirty-two. You no longer have a job. Your teenage bedroom looks exactly the same. You wake up most mornings with a painful tension in your upper back, like you’ve been bracing for impact all night. You can’t make enough money to live. You don’t know what to do. Your mother means well but she cannot help you. Nobody can. Your friends got married already. They’re having babies now. You can’t remember any of the things your therapist used to say that seemed to help at the time. A part of you deep inside your chest can’t deny the reality that you are failing. There is no way to start again. You’ve lost all your chances. You are back where you started. You think maybe you deserve it.

 You wake up again in that same fucking room. Your hand grasps desperately across the bedsheets, treading the familiar path to your phone. It will light up and you can press it to your eyeballs and you will forget momentarily about feeling this way. The walls are the same deep streaky red you compromised on when you wanted black in 2005. Its surface is still scattered with sharp cut out chunks of magazine pages, the jawlines of the boyband members mocking you. They look too young now to be the sex symbols they were when you put them there. Greasy blu tack stains linger in their corners. You know if you tried to take them off they would take the paint off. You think that’s why you haven’t taken them down yet. You look back at your phone and stop thinking about it. You scroll until the fear in your chest is outweighed by the gnawing hunger in your stomach. 

Downstairs, your mother is already waiting and dressed. She’s been up for hours. 

‘I’ve been up for hours!’ she tells you.

‘So, what’s the plan today?’ You don’t have one.

‘I don’t know’ 

‘Well, you have to do something.’ Your mother’s patience has long since run out. You silently make breakfast while your mother furiously irons in the next room, Loose Women on full blast. You stare emptily at your phone until a message appears at the top of the screen. It’s your best friend from school. She only just heard you were home. Were you free for a coffee and a catch up? Of course you were. The thought of having to tell her the sad nothing story of your existence filled you with dread but getting out of the house felt like movement. You crave movement. So, you go.

Natalie’s house is perfect. It feels both completely empty and overflowing with things at the same time. Cutesy posters with snappy slogans wink at you from every wall. Smile! Or don’t, whatever! Girlboss vibes only! It was all so impossibly upbeat. How did these people have a two-year-old? There is almost no evidence that a child lives here; it is apparently hidden somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. The few toys strewn around look deliberately, artfully placed. Something about the earth tones and abstract prints make you feel tiny and stupid. Like you are five years old in a doctor’s waiting room for reasons you couldn’t hope to understand. 

Natalie leads you into a kitchen so white it hurts your eyes. She makes you a coffee and sits on a tall stool overseeing her perfect kitchen island with a serene kind of absence. The kind of contentment that could only come with owning a kitchen like this. You envy her deeply. Natalie puts both hands around her coffee mug and looks down into it, mentally framing a picture that will gain 35k likes on Instagram. Then she looks up at you with a smile, summoning infinitely more energy and enthusiasm than you have felt capable of in your entire life. ‘So, what’s been going on?!’ she demands, like you’re purposefully withholding information from her. 

‘Uh, not much, you know. I moved back home, obviously.’ You reply, Natalie nodding her head sagely, eyes closed but with the whites slightly visible. They look like undercooked eggs. Suddenly her eyes snap open again. ‘OH MY GOD YES! Wow, so amazing for you!’ Is she hearing you? Is this really something to be celebrated? But Natalie’s kitchen is so clean; it feels wrong to disagree. ‘Yes, it’s been amazing,’ You smile.

‘Anyway, I’ve been talking to your Mum and we thought it would be a great idea if you helped me out with wee Layla!’ Natalie smiles and claps her hands together like you are two years old and this is supposed to be some kind of treat for you. ‘Help? What do you need help with?’ Everything about Natalie screams that she has it together. The little jars full of grains you didn’t recognize on her countertop make it seem like she has never needed any help with anything. ‘Yeah! Just a bit of babysitting. I really can’t stand being away from work! Andrew thinks it’d be a good idea if I went back part-time, just a few hours a week,’ Natalie smiles so sweetly you can’t tell if Andrew’s opinion is warranted or not.

‘Sooo it would be SUPER AMAZING if you could watch Layla while I’m at work! Your mum said you’re not doing anything and you must be getting soooooo bored in the house!’ She laughs and it feels malicious. You feel guilty for thinking it. Natalie is only trying to be nice. But Layla is three. You’d never looked after kids of any age before, let alone a fucking toddler. The request feels daunting and you immediately want to say no. Why had she gone to your mother before asking you? Why did it feel like you had no choice over anything that happened, here in this beautiful, spotless kitchen? You ask Natalie if you can think it over and she says of course and you go home and lie in bed staring at that same ceiling just in a different light and sigh deeply and text Natalie saying you’d love to.

 You expect some kind of briefing but Natalie is almost out the door when you arrive. She keeps touching your shoulders and leaning in really close to you which makes you stop paying attention to what she is saying, then she is gone, leaving only a cloud of intimidating florals behind. The house is eerily silent. You realise with a jolt that you don’t know where the baby is, which leads to a vaguely embarrassing search. You pray they don’t have security cameras as you apologetically open the door to each meticulously designed room. The baby is already awake and staring at you from its cot when you open the door. You are frightened by it. It keeps looking at you expectantly.

‘Hello,’ you say, tentatively.

The baby narrows its eyes slowly. You instinctively take a step backwards. It starts making a strange growling sound and you are horrified until you realise it is crying. Shit. You think Natalie is probably very strict about swearing in front of the baby. You awkwardly back out of the room and close the door. It is ridiculous behaviour. You know this. You don’t know what else to do. How to make a baby stop crying? The baby’s cries get louder on the other side of the closed door. You pull out your phone. You google:

How to soothe a crying baby:

1. First, make sure your baby doesn’t have a fever.
2. Make sure your baby isn’t hungry and has a clean diaper.
3. Rock or walk with the baby.
4. Sing or talk to your baby.
5. Offer the baby a pacifier.
6. Take the baby for a ride in a stroller.
7. Hold your baby close against your body and take calm, slow breaths.

Make sure it doesn’t have a fever. Sure. Yes. You can do that. You take a deep breath. Inside, the baby is still standing in the same spot, but now staring woefully at the ceiling, letting out the most gut-wrenching sobs you’ve ever heard. You press the back of your hand to its forehead. It feels normal. The baby looks at you with a start. You have crossed a boundary. You fear you must continue to do so in order to help. The next few hours pass in a haze. The baby does not have a fever. The baby will not eat. The baby’s nappy is clean. The baby does not want to be rocked. The baby does not want to walk. The baby does not want to be sung to or listen to you talk. The baby does not want a dummy. The baby does not want to go in its pram. Eventually you give up and just hold it, taking deep breaths. Hot, frustrated tears run down your face as the baby quietens. 

The baby has strange tiny nails that leave tiny scratches on your skin. She growls quietly as she plays intently with a beautifully designed teddy bear soaked in drool. She has a thick layer of downy hair all over her. You decide this must be normal, even when it comes off in shining clumps. Layla cries. She bites you. You let her. The baby looks up at you in disbelief. Laughs. You don’t tell Natalie. You have to protect her. Natalie comes home later and talks about how much she loves work, how she wishes she could stay there all night. When you hand Layla back to her she makes mock disappointed faces. ‘I wish you could just take her home with you!’ You don’t laugh. You resent the way Natalie talks about her. She is trying her best.  

You wake up the next day fully clothed. There is hair matted into your pillow, with a large dent in the middle where your head lay. You gather it in fistfuls and shove it into an empty plastic bag. It feels wrong to throw it away, plus your mother has been known to “find” things in your bin, so you stow it awkwardly underneath your bed. You are sixteen again. Hiding from her inside your own home. You go downstairs. It is only once you’re down there that you realise you haven’t felt the urge to scroll all day. You have left your phone somewhere. You don’t know where. You find you don’t need it.  

Your mother is asking you questions like what happened last night and why was there hair all over your coat and why did you come back so late and don’t just stare at me like that what’s wrong with you answer me! You don’t answer her. You got back late because you stayed out. There was hair on your coat because that was where it landed. Your mother seems incensed by your calmness. Apparently, you should want to know why. You feel as though you already do. 

You go to Natalie’s again. You take Layla to the forest and let her roll around in the mud. She doesn’t want to wear her coat. You won’t force her. It is not cold. You take off your own coat and lie down in the mud with her. She is laughing at nothing and you laugh too. A small creature moves suddenly and far away. Both of your eyes snap towards it. You feel a need to stop its movement. Something about it angers you. You are sprinting before you decide to do it. Layla is faster than you. It’s a squirrel and it isn’t quite dead by the time you catch up to her. Its small, piercing sounds of pain excite you. Layla turns to you with a smile and you are smiling back. She wants to take it home. You do not tell her no. 

 You leave a trail of mud and blood through the house, and collapse in a pile with Layla and the dead squirrel. You have the most peaceful sleep since you’ve been home. You dream that you are curled up next to a giant wolf. Her grey fur is warm and you know in your limbs that you are safe and protected. The wolf’s slow breaths move your body slowly up and down.  When Natalie comes home her screams are what wake you. Layla is crying. Natalie keeps saying ‘what the fuck, what the fuck’ over and over. She also says ‘get the fuck out of my house’ so you stand outside of her closed front door for a while, unable to will yourself to leave. You listen to her and Layla crying, first quiet, then loud. They don’t stop for what feels like a long time. 

The next morning the house is quiet, except for the whispered conversation your mother is having with Natalie on the phone downstairs, which you can hear as clearly as if she was in the room with you. They think something is wrong with you, and that you need to be separated from Layla as soon as possible. Unwell, our only choice, for Layla’s safety. They have been thinking about this for some time. You creep silently across your bedroom floor and drop from the window, clearing two floors without injury or fear. You make the journey to Natalie’s house on foot. It normally takes half an hour in the car. You are there in 15 minutes on foot. 

You leap over the back fence. You are up the wall and inside in a moment and Layla is sleeping and then she’s in your arms. She wakes up when you are both well away from the house, on your way to the forest. She knows the route, and can barely contain her joy. She makes little yawning dog sounds and snaps her teeth together. She bites you several times and you nip her once on the ear. Not enough to hurt her. At first she is confused but then begins to laugh. It’s a game. It’s easy and it’s a game and you’re away from both of them now and you never have to return. It can be the two of you forever away from your old bedroom and the shame and your mother downstairs watching Loose Women. 

As you enter the woods it is night but the trees are light and warm and welcoming. You put Layla down and she is no longer Layla. You have no use for names now. She can run more quickly on all fours and so can you. It’s never made sense to have a name or sleep in a bed or walk on two legs, you’ve always known this. But it hasn’t felt safe enough to really know it, until now. Quiet descends over your mind, slowly enveloping you the further you get into the forest. Far away, your phone is buzzing frantically, like an insect trapped under a glass. But you cannot hear it. 

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