1
Olivia
I Am Woman – Emmy Meli
It’s barely mid-morning, and I’ve already been in a full-blown brawl with a magpie.
Mating season will be the death of me. The nuisance has been dive-bombing me since sunrise, screaming bloody murder from the fence post like I personally offended her nest. And being August, it’s peak fucking breeding season.
I toss a scoop of feed into the trough just as the wind kicks up, flinging chaff straight into my hair—where it’ll absolutely stay until someone points it out at lunch. Xavier, the eldest Mitchell sibling, walks toward me, sporting a look that says I’ve-been-up-since-four-a.m. Behind him, Nash and Toby move along the fence line. They’ve been rostered seven days this week because the season doesn’t pause just because we do. They work fast. Clean. No fuss. No chatter.
“Gate,” Xavier calls.
“I’ve got it,” I shout, already jogging to swing it wide—because God forbid Kevin the Asshole gets out. Kevin is a goat with a superiority complex.
Boots thud. Metal clinks. Cattle shuffle through in a slow, dusty procession. The air out here smells like dew, diesel, eucalyptus, and a kind of purpose I haven’t fully claimed
Dad doesn’t come down to the yards anymore, not since the heart attack scare last Christmas. He stands on the veranda now—hand wrapped around his mug, slippers on, pretending he’s just “resting”. He lifts two fingers in a salute when I glance up. I pretend not to notice the relief in his shoulders when Xavier whistles the heifers through without fuss.
If the farm is a body, Xavier is its spine. Dad says “we” when he talks about the farm, but Xav is the one with the maps in his head, the rain patterns, the soil quirks, which paddock sulks if you seed it too early. He’s been carrying this place since before anyone asked him to, and now it fits him the way Dad’s old leather jacket fits his shoulders—scuffed, sure, but made for him.
Me? I’m the spare pair of hands—happy to help, paid a steady wage, good at wrangling a stubborn post driver and talking a lamb out from under a fence. It’s honest work. It just doesn’t scratch the itch under my ribs.
“You up for a hardware dash later?” Xavier asks, pencil between his teeth.
“Sure. Give me a list, though, otherwise I’ll get distracted and buy the wrong bolts.”
“Don’t talk the worker’s ear off this time, and hurry it up.”
I grin. “No promises.”
I’m a menace with small talk. Put me in a line, and I’ll know your dog’s name, your cousin’s wedding drama, and your favourite brand of biscuits by the time we reach the register. Mum will call it nosy; I call it inquisitive. I like to store all thesmall stuff—habits, stories, favorites. It’s my way of belonging. It’s my way of planning for something of my own without admitting that’s what I’m doing.
By nine, I’ve already stepped in mud up to my ankle, patched up the quad bike while Toby swore at it in the background, and booked Dad’s check-up for Thursday, because if I ask him if he wants to go, his hearing conveniently switches off. I don’t mind the noise, the chores, the constant back-and-forth. It’s the quiet that gets me. That’s when my brain starts browsing for a new identity.
Florist? Sounds cute.
Barista? I’d drink the profits.
I even tried candle-making once—set off the smoke alarm twice, and the kitchen still reeks of burnt vanilla. Safe to say, that was not my calling.
I’m lugging a bag of feed across the yard when Luna and Buddy come tearing past, skidding through the dirt.
“Control your children,” I yell at Xavier.
“They’re your children half the time,” he shoots back.
“They don’t listen to me.”
“They don’t listen to anyone,” he says, as Luna leaps at his leg and Buddy noses his boot.
I laugh and shove the bag into place. “At least they’re loyal.”
“Only to whoever has the treats,” he mutters, but he bends to scratch behind Buddy’s ear anyway.
I glance toward the house, up at the veranda. Dad’s in his chair, mug in hand, staring out at the fields. The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. He’s here. He’s okay. And he will be—because I’ve decided he will be. Because I booked the damn appointment. We’re not taking chances anymore. Not with the doctor repeating our family history like a warning label. Hypertension. Risk of stroke. Heart attack. The trifecta we’re not letting in. Not if I can help it.
Eventually, I head into town for the hardware run. Bolts. Washers. A packet of oversized hooks we probably don’t need. And, because I’m weak, a pack of sparkly star stickers I absolutely don’t need but will one hundred per cent use to bribe Isla’s daughters into eating something green. On my way out, I stop at the noticeboard, because Ialwaysdo.
