‘But you must know,’ the girl said. ‘Everyone knows where their father is.’

Eliza went red, wishing the bell would ring, hoping the girl wouldn’t ask for her father’s name. She didn’t know that either.

‘You do actually have a father, Eliza, I promise,’ her mother had said once, smiling. ‘I’m not making him up. He just doesn’t live with us.’

‘Can I please meet him one day?’ She regularly asked that.

‘I hope so. One day.’ Her mother always gave that answer.

‘Why not now?’

‘Because he doesn’t live in Australia at the moment.’

‘Where does he live?’

Her mum leaned forward and whispered. ‘On the moon.’

Eliza’s mother had once told her that her father lived in a pyramid in Egypt. Another time she told her he was a spy for the Russians, working undercover – ‘that means in secret’ – and it would be dangerous for them to contact him. Once, she said he was a stunt double for a famous actor in Hollywood.

‘When will you tell me the truth?’ Eliza often asked.

‘The day you turn eighteen,’ her mother would say. ‘As I’ve promised you many times.’

After school that day, Eliza followed her usual routine, walking home alone and using a key hanging on a ribbon around her neck to let herself in. She hung up her schoolbag and changed into what her mum called her ‘casually casual’ clothes: brightly coloured, all from op shops. She took a shop-bought chicken pie out of the freezer and set the table for two. Her mum wouldn’t be home from her job at the supermarket until eight p.m., so it didn’t need to go in the oven yet. She washed out her mother’s wineglass and put the two empty bottles with the others by the back door. Then she found the latest list her mother had left her and started to work her way through it.

Lists were one of her favourite things. Her mum loved them too. They often wrote to each other in list form.

Hello

Mum

How

Are

You?

Very

Well

Thank

You

Eliza.

Her mum always used lists when she gave Eliza tasks to do around the house. Those lists didn’t just keep Eliza busy. They kept her company, in a funny way. The nights waiting for her mum to come home from her shelf-stacking job were sometimes lonely. Jeannie often worked weekend shifts too. She had explained that they needed money to pay for their rent, food and clothes. So while her having to work made their life harder in some ways, it made it easier in others. Her mum was always good at explaining what she called ‘both sides of the story’.

That afternoon after school, she did all her mum had asked.

Do me one of your lovely paintings. (Possible subjects – my pot plants? The green vase?)

Sweep the kitchen floor.

Watch two cartoons.

Eliza added other things herself. She played her favourite song on the recorder, trying to ignore the screeched notes. She went out to the verandah and filled up the bird feeder. She picked up her book and curled up on the worn couch to read. She must have fallen asleep. She woke when she felt the weight of her mother sitting beside her, felt her hand gently stroke her dark hair, heard her whisper.