‘He’s known her for two years,’ she’d whispered to me when we were in the kitchen at night after dinner, when Dad was in the bathroom.

‘Yeah, but they probably weren’t an item that whole time. Maybe he was waiting to see where it would go.’

‘She lived here.’

I gave her that. Skye is everywhere in this house. There’s no way Dad put dried flowers in the vase on the dining table, or hung the bamboo wind chime that sounds when the breeze blows through the laundry window. Skye’s name is on the watercolour of a sunrise that hangs above Dad’s bedroom chest of drawers. And the wooden slats in a pile next to his wardrobe – a cot waiting to be assembled. Skye’s past and future are right in front of us. She probably chose the plates Abby was washing, the bowl I was drying.

‘He proposed to her the night of – It’s not like he’d kept that a secret, Abby. He’d wanted us to meet her. Cut him a bit of slack.’

She’d frowned in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’ Then she lifted one wet hand up and gestured to the stove. ‘Have you not noticed all the things I’m doing?’

Like housework was the point. While my sister knows what it is to grieve, she’s in denial about the extent of Dad’s suffering, seems annoyed at him, somehow convinced this loss isn’t as serious as it was with Mum. As if there’s a scale of grief. As if time spent is related to pain felt. She wants to tell herself he’s mourning for a slip of smoke or a silhouette. Which we can both see is far from the truth.

I drop the last box into the boot of Abby’s car.

‘Be careful, there are breakables in there.’

‘I know, Abby. You know how I know? Because you’ve told me twice already.’ But I can’t get too cocky. I’d forgotten to call Ed, who only learned from Dad a few minutes ago that his poultry are no longer wanted. So now there’s a whole chicken thing for me to hear about on the drive.

‘When will you two grow up?’ Dad says before walking back inside, but there’s nothing left in there for him to check on or do. It’s all done – generator off, appliances unplugged, beds made. After Donna and Abby’s competitive cleaning yesterday afternoon, the house is in better order than before the funeral crowd arrived.

As I carry Dad’s suitcase to the car I offer a small salute to Lenny, the brush turkey I’ve been keeping an eye on. He’s strutting backwards across the driveway, using his long claws to flick bush litter behind him towards his huge nesting mound. His neck wattle wobbles as he increases his efforts. He’s the hardest worker I’ve ever seen. Yesterday, I tried to help him by raking a few leaves in the direction of his nest, but he scattered them across the earth in an outraged frenzy. Turkeys aren’t smart birds, but I respect Lenny’s insistence on doing things his own way.