But the next morning she stared at me vacantly, as if we’d never spoken.

I thought it would be nice for Girl to swim in the dam, too, so that afternoon I’d tried to coax her in. But she wouldn’t get in the water no matter how many times I called, and Dad came down and told me to stop yelling at the dog.

‘You’re turning her into a nervous wreck. Don’t ask her to do something she’s been forbidden to. She knows better.’ He took a half-dozen steps away before remembering I was now also forbidden to swim in the dam. ‘And get yourself up to the house quick smart.’

After dinner, when Nan sent me to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of sherry, I caught Mum feeding Girl pieces of ham. I smiled, and Mum put a manicured finger to her red lips.

I pull the car onto the weedy verge to empty my bladder. I squat down and urinate, Dad and Charlie both still out like lights. Twenty feet away, a wallaby stands, balanced on its thick tail, watching and chewing.

I dig in my handbag for tissues to use in lieu of toilet paper. My fingertips feel the bulge of the ring in my coin purse. How could he have given it away? I drop my wet tissues onto the dirt, stand and pull up my undies. Neither Dad nor Charlie wakes when I open the car door and start the engine.

I stare at my father. His head is drooping to one side, spit drying white in the corner of his mouth. I love him. He enrages me. I am gutted at the grief we’ve caused him. I want to wake him and tell him I am sorry and cry. And shout at him, too, for the years of pain he’s caused. Cry and shout.

On the day Mum died, Charlie and I left her side only to use the toilet or eat in the hospital canteen. I wanted to help make my mother better but there was so much going on that made no sense. None of the nurses would give me a proper explanation about what went through the tubes and into her arms. None of them was sure if Mum could hear me when I asked her if she’d like me to tidy her hair. I tried to decipher the words on the chart that hung on the bar at the foot of her bed. I refolded her nightgowns.

Throughout her illness, Dad had whispered conversations with neighbours, drove us to and from the hospital, and moved around the house like a zombie. The day before she died he went to Kenmore High and taught his history and English classes. If I’d been in Dad’s shoes – an adult – I would’ve fought like a beast to save her, berated the doctor or demanded new techniques or fought for the attention of an outside specialist – something. But when it most mattered to speak up, Dad was quiet, still. And after a while I became quiet, too, because I didn’t know what else to do.