EIGHTEEN
It was strange seeing Dad's furniture in a different house, all laid out and lived in, for he'd been here for five years. As long as I'd been in Melbourne – neither of us could live in his old house any more.
Despite moving from south to north of the river, he'd still chosen a restored cottage with all the walls painted in the same boring shade of beige. Without me around to tell him otherwise, he'd bought all matching beige curtains, too, so the place would've looked blank inside if it weren't for the pictures on the walls. Artwork, mostly, except for the photos. And most of those were of me. My graduation photo took pride of place over the ornately tiled fireplace, too pretty to have hosted a fire in its present state, but beside it was a picture I'd never seen before. It loo
