This weekend, we moved our daughter Kathryn—our youngest and last to leave the nest—into her apartment in New York City.

Before I get into the actual move (that’s a story for another day), I realized this really needed to be a two-part tale.

Because this part isn’t about boxes, or furniture, or how many times I pretended not to be emotional.

This part is about the journey… and a few funny (read: mildly embarrassing) moments along the way.

Kathryn and my son William drove the car, packed to the brim, straight from Cape May to Manhattan.

Steve and I did it the slightly more complicated way: we drove to Philadelphia, met Stephen at his apartment, and then took the train into the city.

Stephen rents a big duplex near Rittenhouse Square with two roommates—one of whom is William. They recently had one roommate move out and a new one move in (it’s a revolving door with these kids), and I hadn’t met the new guy yet.

So I walk into the apartment and see a young man sitting on the couch.

Naturally, I assume this must be the new roommate.

I do what any polite adult would do and say,
“Hi, I’m Hedy, Stephen’s mom. Nice to meet you!”

He smiles. Says hello.

And then Stephen casually says,
“Mom, this is Josh from school.”

Josh.
From school.

Stephen’s close friend from college.
Whom I have met many times.
And had him and his parents down at the flower farm a couple of summers ago.

Cue the slow-motion realization.
Cue internal screaming.

Now here’s the family debate: if this happened to you, would you have gently corrected me right away?

I absolutely would have.

My kids insist that would have made it more embarrassing. Their logic: why pile on?

I remain unconvinced.

On to the train.

I haven’t taken Amtrak in decades (you know, I don’t get out much), and we were seated in the quiet car.

I don’t remember this being a thing when I was younger, but honestly? Brilliant.

Dim lights. No chatter. Just adults reading, working, or staring thoughtfully out the window. I loved every second of it.

We eventually broke for lunch at a cute little café a few blocks from the apartment. Small space, packed with zoomers, excellent food.

As you know, we don’t eat out much. So when the check came, Steve and I did what we always do: started debating sales tax and tip math.

In my former life, I always just doubled the tax.

Apparently… that is no longer the way.

Stephen finally couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed the check and pointed out the helpful little note at the bottom that calculates the tip percentages for you.

Since when does the receipt do math?

Then I signed on the waiter’s handheld device and, of course, the tip options were right there.

(I should have known. I use Square and Stripe at the flower farm myself.)

As we walked out, my oldest sighed and said,
“You guys have now definitely shown your age.”

Fair enough.

I’ll just say this: every generation has its quirks.

Ours may involve doing math out loud and talking to strangers, and theirs might involve apps for everything and fewer awkward conversations.

Neither is right or wrong—just different rhythms for different seasons of life.

And honestly? I’m okay with ours.

In many ways, it feels a lot like life on our little Cape May flower farm.

There are seasons of planting and tending, seasons of blooming, and seasons of letting go and trusting what you’ve grown to go out into the world and do its own thing.

This just happens to be one of those in-between seasons — a little tender, a little awkward, and very full of feeling.

And just like in the garden, you don’t rush it. You let it unfold in its own time.

Part 2 of the move—the actual moving—will be up next.

P.S. Quick (and very scientific) poll for you:
1. Are you a Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, or Gen Z?
2. If you were Josh, would you have:
A) Gently corrected me right away
B) Let it slide to spare my feelings
C) Panicked internally and smiled politely

Comment below, I’m genuinely curious (and promise not to judge… much 😉).