When we were kids, Dad would take us to Toowong Cemetery on the morning of the real date, even if it was a school day, and we would put flowers on Mum’s grave. At some point, when Abby and I were both in our late teens, after one too many ferocious family arguments, we stopped going to the cemetery with Dad. He went alone. Abby and I would go together.

And then Abby created the memorial day ritual. As adults, when we were in the same city, we’d go to Mum’s grave and then back to wherever Abby lived at the time – the share house in Paddington, the flat in Highgate Hill, the house in Kenmore. We kept up our ritual when we were both at uni, and when she dropped out to have Sarah. Neither Mark nor the kids have ever joined us.

Today, Abby and I sit in front of the shrine she’s creating on her dining table: photographs (Mum, Abby and me with Nan and Pop and their mangy dog at the farm, Mum and Dad’s wedding photo, a hand-coloured photo of Mum a few years into her marriage, painted so her cheeks are rosy circles and her teeth freakishly white), a vase of flowers, three candles, Mum’s copy of Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette and a silk scarf with line drawings of roses, leering Italians and skinny vamps. Abby has, as usual, arranged the objects around Mum’s sewing machine, which seems weird to me since I don’t remember her using the thing.

At the front of the shrine is the Memory Box, to which, every year, we each add a handwritten memory about our mother. After we’ve put our memory inside, Abby pulls out a selection of memories from previous years and reads them aloud. Sometimes we have a drink. Not always. Not today.

‘Where’s her ring?’ I ask. ‘Should we put that out, too? Since nobody else is around.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’ve hidden it in my jewellery box. Mark never opens that. But I think it should stay put.’

I think about this. ‘Abby, it’s evidence. I reckon we should bury it or throw it in the river.’

‘No. It should’ve been with me years ago. Don’t worry – I’ll keep it hidden. The only other person who’d recognise it is Dad.’

‘Who’s living in your house,’ I say.

‘Not for long.’

I change tack. ‘So what did you write?’

She turns over the piece of paper in front of her. ‘I wrote: I remember the bruise spreading on Mum’s arm where the drip went in. It got so large the bandage couldn’t cover it. I waited for Dad to tell a nurse but he didn’t. So when my mother died from cancer she also had a sore arm.’

I glare at her. ‘Jesus, Abby. I don’t want that in the Memory Box.’

‘It’s my memory. I’m putting it in.’

‘It’s always been good things before.’

‘You can’t vet my memories. What did you write?’