Aside from the holes in the walls I’ve had to patch up and paint over, there’s still so much work to do before I can think about moving onto the garden, the very one I worked my damn arse off to grow and maintain.
My previous tenants didn’t just trash the inside of the house; they managed to kill almost every plant outside as well, leaving me to clean up and repair every bit of destruction they left behind.
I’ve made a vow never to accept a group of reckless uni students as tenants again, especially ones who treat my house like a party venue than their home.
Mark Avery’s business card glares at me from the fridge, a local carpenter I still haven’t called, and just one more taskpiled onto an already endless list. It’s moments like this that make me miss having Adrian around. He was always on top of the household maintenance, the small, practical things that kept the house running. Since the divorce, though, it’s all fallen to me—every repair, every decision—just me, myself, and I.
Now, what was I looking for again? Right—a box cutter.
I reach for the island drawer, the one with all the bits and bobs I couldn’t be bothered to organise, and the moment I pull it open, the handle pops loose, nearly grazing my thumb on a sharp nail.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I fling the handle onto the countertop in frustration. It lands with a sharp clink, bouncing before rolling towards the edge. I gasp, suddenly remembering the stone beneath it, and rush to inspect the surface. Relief washes over me when I find not a single chip or mark in sight.
“Zac! I shout. “Where are you? Your pop is going to be here any minute now.”
“I’m coming!” he calls out from the bathroom.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway until Zac appears in the kitchen doorway, carrying his overnight backpack over his shoulders.
“Oh, good. Have you packed your toothbrush?”
“Yes.”
“Your pyjamas?”
“Yes.”
“Your jumper?”
“Yes.
“Extra pair of socks?”
“Yes, Mum. I’ve packed everything!”
“I’m just checking. No need to get snappy, little crocodile. I know how you can forget things.”
“Mum, I told you not to call me your little crocodile.”
“Why not? I think it’s cute.”
“It’s not. It’s embarrassing. And you have to stop calling me that in front of my teacher and friends.”
I roll my eyes at him, and he responds with an eye roll of his own, only far more dramatically. He might only be nine, but he has the attitude of a fifteen-year-old.
The day after I finally ended things with Adrian, I sat down with Zac to talk about his dad and me separating. I told him we wouldn’t be living in the same house anymore, that his dad would be staying in Sandy Vale. I didn’t go into the details of our separation; instead, I made sure he understood that none of it was his fault, and that we both still loved him deeply. I explained the arrangement clearly: how he would spend every second weekend with his dad at his parents’ home here in Sydney.
As I expected, Zac had a few questions of his own—would his dad still come to watch him play soccer, would he still be at his birthday? To all of them, I said yes. Adrian assured me he would be there for every milestone, every achievement. And while there have been times he couldn’t make it to Zac’s games, he always made up for it on his next visit.
One thing I made sure to do was arrange sessions with a child therapist for Zac, to help him process his emotions andadjust to our new family dynamic. And so far, it’s been helping him, and me—more than I could have hoped.
The front door slams open, and I’m jolted back to the present. My dad’s deep, animated voice rolls through the house.
“Where’s my favourite grandson?” he shouts. He says it every time he comes to pick up Zac, and he can get away with it too, since he’s the only grandson in the family.
“Hey, Pop! Are we really going to catch a ferry to the city?”
