Kiama often jokes that Alexa is the only female voice in the house, but it’s actually quite depressing. He stands up and drops the lights in the pedal bin. ‘Done with this.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’ll get new ones, it’s almost Black Friday.’

‘No, what’s wrong with your mood?’

‘I was going out,’ he offers.

‘Well then, go out.’

But the sight of Dad, flicking through old Christmas cards, is too depressing. ‘And what are you doing tonight?’

Dad crosses his arms and nods back through the door at the Christmas boxes.

‘It’s November,’ he cries, ‘come on, Dad, you’re not going to sit in decorating the house all alone, are you?’

‘No. I’ll wait for you. I just wanted to see what was in the boxes.’

It’s too much pressure. Kiama doesn’t want his dad sitting around waiting for him to do stuff with. It’s too much responsibility. It was easier when Nana was alive, at least then he was kept busy. There were women then too, even the ones that didn’t stick around for long saw to it that Dad was occupied and not rattling around the house compulsively cleaning.

‘What are you doing? Go out. Go see Trina. But don’t come back here without bringing me some new lights, you hear?’

Is this really enough for him?

‘Isn’t it time you started getting back out there?’

‘What? Where is this coming from?’

‘I’m worried about you.’

Dad snorts. ‘Why?’

But Kiama doesn’t know what to say really, how to tell Dad that it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to dedicate his life to looking after him anymore.

‘You can’t just drop that in the conversation and go silent. What are you worried about?’

‘I’m worried about you staying in this house. About you being here alone if I go off travelling again. About you getting bored and getting old.’

‘Behave yourself.’ He rips some of the cards in half and chucks them in the recycling bin. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

‘And I’m worried about this intense relationship you have with Alexa.’

They both laugh.

‘I’ve got more than enough stuff to be getting on with. I’ve got a house to sell, a business to save, a son who’s eating me out of house and home. You really think I have time for the additional stress a woman brings? At least I assume you’re talking about a woman?’

‘Yeah, I am,’ Kiama says. ‘Can’t you feel your biological clock ticking?’

They’ve had so little banter in the weeks since he returned it feels good to talk like normal again, to jibe each other and laugh. ‘Seriously though, what are you looking for?’

Dad leans against the counter and folds his arms. ‘What makes you think I’m looking?’