The hallway was lined with framed pictures of generations of Pollard farmers: men and women in high-waisted flared pants; babies in huge baby carriages; and women in long dresses and coats with fur collars. The photographs were mostly from an era where everyone stared at the camera, unblinking and unsmiling. They all watched solemnly as the last of the Pollard line walked past them with no intention of adding her own branch to the family tree. They were lucky to have me. The last framed picture was of my mother wearing a duffel coat with a baby slung casually on one hip. Me. The gender revolution of the 1970s saw my mother leave Deception Bay and storm the hallowed halls of Melbourne Uni, waving placards protesting war, men, and anything else that made her angry until she gained her medical degree. There were postings in far-flung places and, in the late 1980s, accidental motherhood without the burden of a husband. I glanced at her face in the photo as I often did. She was defiant and strong. You could see it back then and I still see it whenever she’s back in town. Which is not often.

In the kitchen, I plugged my phone into the charger on the bench, resisting the urge to look once more at the message from Daniel. Miss you. Two little words that cut like razors. I made a small pot of tea and covered it with the colourful tea-cosy Nan had crocheted before her fingers swelled red and angry, and bent with arthritis. I kicked off my boots and padded over to the pantry in socks. I filled Waffles’ bowl with police dog premium kibble. He sat patiently and watched.

‘Eat,’ I said.

With a wag of his tail, he leaped forward and inhaled half the bowl before pausing for breath. Chomping sounds filled the kitchen, and the bowl scraped against the floorboards.

I poured a cup of tea, added milk, and then settled in the adjoining sitting room in Nan’s armchair. ‘What a day!’ I told Waffles. He cocked his head in sympathy and came over to sit by my feet. He licked a stray crumb of kibble off his chin and slobbered on me in the process. I warmed my hands against the steaming mug. It was too late to light the fire. I closed my eyes for a moment.

A sound came from outside the French doors.

While the light from the sitting room illuminated a bit of the verandah, beyond it was black as pitch. The sound was like someone stepping on a branch and snapping it. I took another sip of tea and looked down at Waffles. His ears pricked up, swivelled like submarine periscopes, then relaxed. If there was anyone out there, he’d be right on it. But he sat unruffled. Probably a possum.