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Six months after the first Octomum was acquired, a second one is brought into the family. The initial unboxing reveals a large, humanoid robot with significant physical features, leading to a hasty covering. The new Octomum is outfitted with a dressing gown and belts, then taken to a local store for clothing, where the family experiences public scrutiny and a chaotic incident. The narrative includes themes of family adjustment, coping with loss, and the integration of advanced robotics into domestic life.
Six months after we took Mum home and sat her on the fireplace, Octomum arrived. She came in a box too. Dad wanted an official ceremony.
I asked if he wanted me to be the celebrant. He laughed, but he didn’t smile, even when I reassured him I was joking. After Dad yelled a few times and promised them a Mars Bar, Finn brought the scissors inside. Milo trotted cautiously behind, unsure how an insect dismemberer should walk.
The unboxing was meant to be Finn’s job, but Dad took over when Finn refused to modify his technique from stabbing to slicing. I Am Not an Alcoholic: The anger never lasted long - but the consequences didgrunting as he pulled back the cardboard flaps. This is just a short-term thing. A bit of help to get us through.
Any problems, we’ll send it back. It was a woman, actually. Well, a robot octopus woman. And what a woman.
We were confronted with the most enormous pair of bluish-grey breasts I’d ever seen. Dad hurriedly threw a tea towel over them, peeked down lower and slammed shut the flaps of the box. He stood, chewing his lip. Dad said.
He peered down the corridor to the bedrooms and then looked at me. I’d padlocked her door. Taped cling wrap across the edges. I was saving the last of her remaining scent for rainy days.
The days it didn’t stop raining. In the end, Dad’s dressing gown wasn’t the best fit. He had to make extra holes for all the arms, and reinforced the outfit with three leather belts. She did not look like the picture on the box.
She did not look like the other mothers at school, or like the one above our fireplace. Once Dad had gone next door to borrow the right power point adapter, we had to choose how much she loved us. A good number? I didn’t know any good numbers.
All I knew was 38 was not enough. I touched Dad’s arm. The options are: Light patting, I haven’t seen you all day, or Mama’s best bear hug. And after that,In hindsight, bringing the family clothes shopping with the first Octomum in our town wasn’t Dad’s brightest idea.
If he took her by himself, he might have got a few odd looks as that weirdo playing dress-up with his sex doll, but that would have been the worst of it. If he sent her with me, old people may have been shocked at how far Barbies had advanced in the last decade, but it wouldn’t have merited two dozen calls to family services. Dad said.
Octomum remarked on the lovely displays of plastic cups and pool noodles at very affordable prices, but I don’t know how she even saw them, because we were practically running to the womenswear. Octomum had all eight limbs firing and Dad’s dressing gown looked like it had been mauled by sharks. As we arrived at the changerooms, Dad scooped a bunch of clothes from the discard pile, shoved them into Octomum’s arms and ushered her into one of the cubicles.
A crowd had formed behind us. The woman in the lay-by window updated latecomers. Dad chewed his lip so hard it went purple. Milo was crying.
He’d wet himself. As I moved to him, a tiny, strangled sob escaped Dad’s throat. The changeroom doors burst open. Octomum emerged in a red G-string and Paw Patrol swim vest four sizes too small.
She picked Dad up with two arms and Milo with another two, squeezed them so tight their faces turned purple, and began to yell. Milo kept crying. Finn pretended to laugh. I made mental notes to record for future therapy sessions.
Later, Dad promised to turn down the affection levels. One afternoon I came home from school and the front yard was brown. For a moment I wasn’t sure I was at the right house. It looked like one of those new builds plonked on a patch of dirt, destined to be ugly for a few weeks until the landscapers did their job.
Except ours was not a new build. The cream weatherboards were peeling. The gutters had rusted through and the front screen door had no screen. I looked again at the damage.
The wisteria was gone. The spiky things Dad didn’t know the name of and had been promising to remove for years. And Mum’s azaleas, that she had tried to teach me how to care for. I felt a strange sense of relief.
Dad pulled up in the driveway with Finn and Milo in the backseat of the station wagon. His window was already down. Octomum said, edging past me to the front passenger door. You took me to a budget department store to try on lingerie and children’s flotation devices.
I’m already there. Later, after the boys were asleep, I stared out my window to the backyard and saw Dad showing Octomum how to plant tomato seeds in the last of the evening light. I cracked my window. Octomum wound an arm across his shoulders, suckers clinging to the bare skin of his neck.
Dad flinched, but he didn’t fight her off. I closed the window and rolled onto my back. It wasn’t dark enough yet for the glow stars on my ceiling to light up, so I stared at Mars and Venus above my bookshelf, and resolved myself to wait. Someone to the left of me said.
Of course. I am compatible with the big five faiths, as well as Shinto, Voodoo and – for a small financial upgrade – Scientology. May the Lord be with you and also with you and no I insist, even more with you,It’s nice to see so many familiar faces. And also, some less familiar faces.
Please, welcome our newcomers. I could feel the scowls and narrowed eyes behind us. At least if it was Christmas there might have been some good cheer in the room, but this was Easter. Jesus was murdered.
Daylight savings just ended. Chocolate prices were up sixty-eight per cent. They wanted blood. The next hymn began and I cringed as Octomum stood and opened her mouth.
But this time, Dad nailed the settings. She sounded like Maria Carey ‒ not annoying Christmas jingle Maria Carey, but the Petals version. The one who made pain beautiful. Made it holy.
It was the same for the next one, and the one after that. By the time the communion hymn began, the priest was glaring at us. Octomum stood and moved towards the end of the pew. Finn took his first and made a gagging sound.
Dad went next. The priest was still glaring. Dad glared back, and made exaggerated chewing movements when he received his. When Octomum arrived at the front of the line, the priest shook his head.
I’m not sure that deserves an answer. Milo started to cry. The crowd behind us grew restless. An altar boy sidled up to the priest and murmured something in his ear.
Octomum reached a gloved arm towards Dad. He caught it and held it aloft. She is literally programmable to only complete good deeds. She can pray four times as hard as you even though SHE KNOWS IT’S NOT REAL.
Stick your crackers, champ. That night I woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. On my way for a glass of milk, I walked past the lounge. Light spilled out from a crack in the door.
So did the drone of late-night television. I opened it a little further. Octomum’s ad was playing. Dad was on the floor, clutching the remote, face blotchy.
The ad finished, and Dad stabbed at the rewind button. I closed the door, softly as I could. After school went back, everyone knew about Octomum. Some smirked.
Some steered clear. Most just whispered. Finn did not appreciate the smirkers. Sometimes he would come home all torn up, beyond even Octomum’s ability to fix.
One day I went down to Finn’s end of school at recess to see if he’d swap me my oat bar for his muffin. Three boys approached him – a tough guy and two flankers.did your old man buy a wife with eight arms so she can still wank him off while she irons and dusts your mum’s ashes? I was behind the bin – waiting for Finn’s reaction before I formed my own – when Octomum appeared.
Like she’d been summoned. Like she’d been waiting behind a bin too, but instead of a bin it was a mirror and she wasn’t happy with the reflection. The tough one stared and – I have to give him credit here – without even turning to look at his back-up, instantly broke out into the age-old schoolboy serenade:She led them to the boy’s toilet block.
Following at a distance, I went round back and stood on the barrel marked “not safe for human consumption”. I pressed my face against the gap between the Besser blocks, my cheekbones grinding against the coarseness. The boys nodded, mouths already slightly ajar. Finn pressed himself back against the entrance wall.
Octomum unfurled three arms towards the boys, the suckers making subtle popping noises as they disengaged. Then, in one swift movement, she slapped them. Once, twice, three times. It was like watching a row of clown heads at the Easter show.
Speak another word about Finn’s parents – or my breasts – again, and you will lose the ability to wank off permanently. Mrs Provan wasn’t always a grouch. Dad said she was lovely until her husband died. And not because she missed him, but because when he died, she found out he’d gambled away the last of their super.
So I can’t say I was surprised when she poured a bucket of liquid chlorine over Octomum when she was lying in the hammock next to the fence to recharge. Dad was too scared to move her, so for three days she lay in the hammock, arms dangling out, swaying gently when the southerly picked up in the afternoons. Dad spent most of it by her side. He even slept out there in his swag.
When Milo cried at night it wasuck it up in silence, princess, no one gave me an upgrade. The only times he left were to drive the boys to Macca’s. I was in charge then. I’d never seen a dead body before.
Not technically. Mum looked pretty corpse-like at the end, but I never saw her afterwards. They stole her away while I was stuck in science class learning the life expectancy of bacteria. Dad finally found a repairer willing to take a look, but he looked like a Design and Tech teacher dismissed for misconduct. It took a while, but the repairer managed to turn her back on. She started talking in French until he whacked her in the back of the head with a mallet. After that, she talked less, but at least we could understand her.
The guy said full repairs were possible, but expensive. And considering she was just a glorified beta model, probably not worth the effort. She doesn’t sing so well anymore. Her lullabies to Milo are slightly off pitch.
Her volume wavers. Sometimes, I’ll find her in an empty room, sayingover and over again. Dad says we’ll stick with her till the end. Even after she salted the tomatoinstead of the bruschetta.
We could have fixed her. Still could, but Dad says she doesn’t need fixing. Dad’s problem is he always loves the ones with problems the best. Last time we were at Kmart we saw another Octomum.
The 2.0 version. This one looked like Taylor Swift. Her suckers had been smoothed out, her breasts flattened. She only had six arms, so I don’t know how they could even call her an Octomum.
It was disgusting. There was no way we could ever accept something like that. But the new Hermitdad being released next month looks amazing. It promises not to say anything in public.
And it adapts perfectly to a borrowed shell. I think if scientists scooped out the insides of Dad, they’d findworth salvaging. But technology hasn’t advanced that far yet, and Dad just doesn’t know where to look. Each night I creep out into the corridor, still hoping Dad can turn back the clock, but 30 seconds is all he can manage.
Octomum by Patrick Eades came third in The Moth Short Story Prize 2026. Judge Wendy Erskine called it “Inventive, funny and a total delight. Octomum deals with loss in its own inimitable way. ” Eades will spend a week at The Moth Retreat.
Patrick Eades, who lives in Sydney, is a physiotherapist and part-time stay-at-home dad as well as a writer. He was runner-up in the 2025 Peter Carey Short Story Award. His debut novel, A Road to Nowhere, is forthcoming.
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