Finding Debbie Jenkins at my doorstep was akin to finding dog shit on my porch, lit on fire, attached to a ticking time bomb, which had been secured to a school bus full of kids.

This woman has messed with my life more than anyone else I know, and still, I called her here, knowing that Rory needs her. I put her on a plane—first class, in case you were wondering, a luxury I’d never indulge in myself—so she could salvage her relationship with her daughter.

When I open the door, she’s staring at her pointy, glittery cowgirl boots with a frown, drawing a circle with the tip of the right one. Rory wasn’t exaggerating about the hairspray, highlights, and Coyote Ugly outfit. Her mother looks like a Vegas showgirl who fell asleep under the blazing sun and woke up twenty years later.

Rory is in the bedroom, dead to the world after a turbulent few days, and I want to make this as painless as possible for my wife.

“Debbie.” I open the door, stepping aside. “Do you need help with your suitcase?”

“I didn’t bring one. I wasn’t expecting her to—”

“Forgive you? I wouldn’t, either. But Rory’s better than that.” Than us.

She still refuses to look at me. If nothing else, her shame is evidence that she has a soul. That’s good. Souls are rolling, organic, never-dying things. Bodies are born and die and decay in between.

Debbie steps in gingerly. I make her a cup of tea without asking if she needs it, while she perches her arse on a stool by the breakfast nook.

I slide the cup toward her and stand at the other end, waiting. Her chin is still tucked into her neck, and she’s doing everything she can to avoid eye contact.

“I didn’t…” she starts, then clamps her mouth shut. She opens her mouth again. “I mean, my daughter has always been my number-one priority. She still is. You should know that.”

“Funny thing is, she was my priority, too,” I answer evenly.

“You can’t blame me for not wanting her to repeat my mistakes,” she says to her thighs. “You know what went down when I was here. The entire village does.”

“No, but I can blame you for naturally assuming I’m as bad as Glen.”

She finally looks up at me, her eyes big and green, like Rory’s. Unlike Rory’s, they’re also sad and crinkly and bloodshot. They’ve seen things they never wanted to witness. We have that in common.

“You were a young boy, a drunk, a busker, a shameless flirt.” She shakes her head. “Look, I’m not here to fight. Thanks for the ticket, but I’m here to see my daughter and go. And I’ll be taking her with me.”

“Fat chance.” I yawn, cupping my mouth and revealing my wedding band.

Just to be clear, it is not the same wedding band I wore when I married Kath. I couldn’t chance jinxing my marriage to Rory with a band that was a constant reminder of the biggest tragedy in my life.