THIRTY-THREE
Gemma bursts into the living room like she’s auditioning for another reboot of Gladiator. She’s wearing a glittery pink tutu, half an Elsa costume and one light-up sneaker. In her hand is a foam sword, which she raises above her head.
‘AUNTY J!’ she shrieks. ‘YOU’RE NOT DEAD YET!’
I sit at Issy’s kitchen table in a Snow White outfit Gemma insisted I wear twenty minutes ago, tiara askew, lipstick smudged across my cheek because I let her paint my face.
I glance down at my plastic heels. ‘Sweetheart, Aunty J is emotionally dead. That counts.’
She whacks me with the sword.
‘Break time,’ I announce, holding up my hands. ‘Go torture Billie for a while.’
Gemma frowns. ‘But she’s hiding in the washing machine and that’s cheating.’
‘That’s also called strategy. You should take notes.’
She pouts dramatically – an inherited Hayes trait, I’m almost certain – and then sprints off to find her sister with the unhinged energy of someone who’s consumed three Zooper Doopers and made peace with chaos.
Issy walks in carrying a laundry basket the size of a small car. She surveys the glitter trail Gemma’s left in her wake like it’s the aftermath of a tiny, sticky hurricane.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘Gemma’s going through a phase.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Is Greg going through a phase too, or is this absent thing more permanent?’
Issy flinches, almost imperceptibly. But I catch it. I always catch it.
She waves a hand, too casual. ‘He’s fine. He’s just … stressed.’
Right. And he was stressed two years ago when she showed up on my doorstep with tired eyes, two feral toddlers and a duffel bag she wouldn’t unpack.
I’ve tried to get her away from him. For her sake. For the kids. For my own sanity, so I can stop waking up in the middle of the night wondering if I should’ve said more, done more, been more convincing.
But Issy has her own rules. Her own warped logic that staying married means stability, and stability means her kids won’t end up like us – fractured and sharp-edged and covered in wounds that never quite healed.
She thinks staying means they’ll be okay.
I think she’s wrong.
But I’ve already said that. So instead, I peel off one of the plastic heels and flex my toes.
Issy finally sinks into the chair across from me. She looks exhausted. The bone-tired kind of exhaustion, like something is slowly draining her from the inside.
‘You okay?’ I ask softly.
She hesitates. Then, ‘Some days I feel I’m … watching my own life happen.’
I blink. That’s not the Issy I know. The one who always had a plan. Who colour-coded her high school diary and married the first guy who said he wanted a future with her.
I study her. ‘That’s because you’re unhappy.’
She stares at the countertop. ‘I miss being seen, you know? Not as “Mum” or “Greg’s wife” or the lady who always forgets her Woolies bags, but me.’
I want to reach across the table. I want to say, Leave him. Pack the kids. Come with me. But I’ve said all of that before, and it changed nothing. So, I sit in it with her.
‘You’re lucky,’ she says after a while, voice low. ‘At least you haven’t built your whole life on a lie.’
There it is.
I should feel relieved – vindicated, maybe. Instead, her words settle somewhere sharp in my chest. Because yes, my life looks different to hers. No husband. No children. But it’s a curated version of everything I wanted: independence, career, control. And it’s just as hollow.
My life is nothing but a lie.
I change the topic. ‘Have you heard from Dad at all?’
‘No.’ Issy lets out a short laugh. ‘But his latest wife sent Gemma a t-shirt from their P&O cruise that said “I love Thailand” for her birthday, so maybe that counts for something.’
‘Something of nothing is still nothing.’
‘Welcome to the Hayes family motto.’
I pick at the edge of my Snow White sleeve, trying not to unravel the threads of myself while I’m at it. ‘Sorry I left Gemma’s party so suddenly the other week.’
Issy glances at me, narrowing her eyes. ‘Yeah, what was that? Where did you bolt off to?’
I shrug. ‘Nowhere interesting. I should’ve stayed.’
‘Mum assumed you were off doing something dramatic.’
‘That tracks. You said she rocked up drunk the other day?’
‘Yep.’ Issy groans. ‘She obviously had nothing better to do so proceeded to criticise the fact that I’m still with Greg, as if her own track record with men is anything to go by.’
‘You’re not wrong. But neither is she.’
‘Mum! Billie stole my crayons!’ Gemma calls out from another room.
Issy sighs, then yells back. ‘Those crayons belong to both of you. Learn to share.’
I bark out a laugh. ‘You’re a great mum, you know that?’
She snorts. ‘Tell that to Billie when she finds out she can’t wear her plastic heels to preschool.’
‘No, I mean it. Gemma and Billie are already turning out better than we did. You know why?’
She quirks an eyebrow.
‘Because they’ve got a parent who loves them. Unconditionally. No strings. No disappearing acts. That’s one more parent than we ever had.’
Issy doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are glassy when she leans over and nudges her head against my shoulder.
We sit there – two exhausted women in a war-torn kitchen, covered in glitter, trauma and love too complicated to name.
‘Come on,’ I say, tapping Issy on the leg. ‘Let’s take the girls to the park.’
Monday hits hard as I wake up to my phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Ella:
I can’t believe you actually did it.
After everything I told you.
Are you seriously ignoring me now?
I stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, thinking maybe if I hold it long enough, a reply will write itself. A clever, casual, totally- not-crumbling-inside kind of response.
But nothing comes.
Because she’s not wrong.
I toss the phone onto the bed, drag myself to the shower, and wash off the remains of whatever the hell last week was.
By 8.45 a.m., I’m standing in the sterile reception area at my work, badge clipped to my jacket, smile glued to my face like I haven’t just returned after imploding my personal life for a man who told me not to come back.
My desk is as I left it. Too neat. Too untouched. My nameplate is slightly crooked – it knows I’m a fraud.
Kira from legal comes over with a triple-shot oat milk latte and a tight smile. ‘Good weekend?’
I nod. ‘Productive.’ Not a lie if you count Tinder matches and existential dread as productivity.
Before I’ve even sat down, I get briefed on a new campaign for a toothpaste brand pivoting to charcoal.
Edgy. Disruptive. Very clean- girl aesthetic meets bio-activated enamel science.
The kind of beige campaign that’s perfect for someone trying to quietly disappear into corporate obscurity.
So, I bury my head in the deliverables and pretend the blinking cursor isn’t mocking me.
But no matter how many brand decks I scroll through or concepts I fake-smile at in meetings, my brain keeps short-circuiting back to a dusty farm, those stupid cows and a pair of blue eyes that saw me too clearly.
I text Abbey.
You working in the city today?
She replies in 0.03 seconds because Abbey is surgically attached to her phone and has push notifications for oxygen.
Always. Lunch break?
We meet outside the salad place we pretend we enjoy, at one of those outside tables that make you feel slightly less cool than a Parisian chain-smoker.
Abbey’s already mid-rant about a PR launch that went viral. ‘Anti- ageing cream made from, get this, rendered animal fat. I shit you not. It’s literal cow goo. I swear to God, Jamie, science has gone rogue.’
I push cherry tomatoes around my biodegradable bowl of sadness. ‘That’s revolting.’
She shrugs. ‘Apparently it works. Probably because your skin is too traumatised to move.’
We’re both mid-bite, chewing like health-conscious frauds, when I see him.
Tom.
He walks past in vet scrubs and does a double-take when he spots me. I do a double-take too and groan internally for the car crash that’s about to happen.
He stops. Smiles. ‘Hey!’
Abbey, to her credit, catches on fast and straightens up with a grin that’s all teeth and silent judgement.
‘Tom. Hi.’ I give him the kind of wave that says Please don’t ask me any real questions.
He glances at Abbey.
‘Abbey, this is Tom,’ I say, waving a hand between them. ‘Tom, this is Abbey.’
Tom, ever polite, shakes her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Then – of course – he looks at me. ‘How’s the dog hunting going?’
Abbey immediately perks up. ‘You’re getting a dog?’
I force a smile, buckling up for the collision. ‘Still looking. Haven’t found the right one.’
Another lie. Cue the credits.
Tom’s eyes light up. ‘My friend’s kelpie had a litter. I could pass on his number if you want?’
I nod. This is all perfectly normal and not the crumbling scaffolding of a lie I can’t keep up anymore. ‘That would be great.’
Abbey kicks me under the table.
‘What brings you into the city?’ I ask, trying to deflect.
‘I work around the corner,’ Tom says. ‘Vet clinic on George Street.’
‘Oh. My office is around the corner, too.’
He grins. ‘Well then. Maybe we should grab lunch sometime.’
I hear myself say, ‘I’d love that,’ because apparently, I’m a sucker for car wrecks.
Then he’s waving goodbye and heading back to work.
Abbey watches him go before turning to me. ‘What the fuck?’
‘I’m not leading him on,’ I mutter.
‘Right. Just casually booking playdates for a dog you don’t even want.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s not like I’m going to date him.’
Abbey stabs her salad. ‘You’re still doing the same thing.’
I ignore her.
She doesn’t let it drop. ‘The same thing you did with Luke.’
My stomach twists. I pretend not to hear it.
My pain must be evident, because Abbey softens. ‘At least come with me to check out that pottery place. The one in Surry Hills. They’ve got a beginner class next week.’
‘Pottery. What am I, a retired divorcee with a voucher?’ I say, deadpan.
Abbey gives me a look, as if worried she’ll have to drag me there by the ankles. ‘It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby that doesn’t involve dick or alcohol.’
‘I’ll think about it.’