Aussie homes are often made from red bricks with red roofs to match. But my father’s house has white wood panelling, elegant black shutters and a grey-tiled roof. The postbox looks straight out of a movie set—a miniature house with a raised red flag. I touch it as I walk by, to remind myself this is real, I’m here.

Wheelie bags don’t do well in snow, who knew? Adam carries mine and Melody’s up the porch stairs, unlocks the front door and we all go inside. The heater’s already on, thank goodness.

I follow my father’s lead as we hang up our coats and take off our shoes in the entry, before padding into the living room in our socks. The beige wall-to-wall carpet looks hardly trodden on.

A huge flat-screen TV takes up the living-room wall, the other walls bare and fresh. A centre column contains a fireplace with a heap of wood and kindling. Adam kneels in front of it and with a few quick movements it lights up. That explains where his smoky smell comes from, but what about the apples?

‘Have you lived here long?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s still quite new, moved in less than a year ago.’

An old brown sofa and chequered armchair clash with the modern, white-marble kitchen island. There’s a double-doored fridge, silver and shining, and all the latest kitchen equipment Aunt Paula would kill for. Everything is clean and orderly.

I wonder how he can afford such an expensive house on a fisherman’s wage but don’t want to ask too many questions too soon. I asked Mum a thousand times about him, a hundred different ways, but all she ever said was: ‘salmon fishing in Alaska’. And one other word, ‘loser’. And with that charming description floating in my head, I’d imagined a different scene: a small apartment smelling of fish, piles of dirty laundry, towers of dirty dishes, moulding pizza boxes and ashtrays spilling over.

He shows Melody and me the guestrooms—we each have one, complete with ensuite, although mine’s a little bigger.

‘Who’s ready for coffee?’ he asks when we return to the lounge room. ‘Jet lag will probably hit you later, and you’ll want an early night.’

‘Sorry, but do you have tea?’ I ask.

‘Tea, huh? I’m sure I have a box of that stuff somewhere,’ he says, opening cupboards. I follow him into the kitchen and perch myself on the steel stool by the kitchen island.

‘If it’s not herbal, I’ll just have a hot water with a little lemon.’ Melody runs her hand over the marble.

‘Found it. Sky, I bought you soy milk, or do you drink it black?’

‘Thanks, Adam,’ I say, feeling his name stick on my tongue. ‘Black is fine. But I’ll have the soy milk with breakfast, that’s great.’