One

1 January. My sixteenth birthday. I should have been smiling, cheering and doing cartwheels. But no one wants to have their birthday on the first day of January. Especially not me. And especially not this year.

This year, it was only Mum and me.

No Eliza, my best friend, who’s at her family holiday house for the summer. No Grams and her signature strawberry sponge cake. No stack of books, individually wrapped, one for each year of my life—Grams’ birthday tradition. No games of Uno after a lunch of roast lamb. Mum doesn’t play Uno, and she has no idea how to make a lamb roast.

Of course, there was no dad either. There had never been one of those. There was just Mum and me, after she got home from another hundred-hour day at work, with a store-bought chocolate mud cake and one lonely candle that wouldn’t stay lit.

“Sorry, Tilly,” Mum said. “I forgot to buy candles.” She scrambled through the kitchen drawer. “Here we go. One candle. That’ll do, right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just lit the candle, skipped the Happy Birthday song, because really I’m a bit old for that now, and quickly cut the cake, like it was another thing on her to-do list. Because it was.

She even said, “Done!” after she’d cleared the plates, stacked them in the dishwasher, and then handed me my present, a book voucher. No card, just the voucher. It wasn’t even from my favourite indie bookstore. Just one of those big chain stores.

“Sorry, I have to reply to this email tonight. We can do something together tomorrow, right?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Great,” she said as she plonked herself on the couch, already opening up her laptop.

Seriously?

My mum didn’t know how to be with me. All she knew was how to work. So that’s what she did. All the time. Even on public holidays. Even on my birthday.

If Grams were here—No, forget that thought. Not helpful. It had been three months. Would the pain ever go away?

I drifted down to my room and curled up on my bed with my cat Luna, trying to ignore the dread settling in my stomach.

These weeks and weeks of summer holidays were going to drag on forever. I had no reason to get up. There was nothing I had to do. I could easily slip into oblivion, and then nothing.

Aargh. This really was pathetic. All alone on my birthday, staring up at the ceiling, obsessing over all the loved-up pics of Josh, the excessively good-looking rower from school, with his drama-queen girlfriend, Laura. Why was he even with her?

They’d broken up that many times, surely they could just stay apart? Worlds apart. Then this dream of Josh and me could be a thing. Right?

Even my usual go-to-cheer-up tactic, watching YouTube videos of huskies singing wasn’t cutting it, as cute as they were. That was it: I was calling it. This was officially the worst birthday ever.

Then my phone flashed. A message from Zack. “Meet me by the train line in five.”

Thank God. I had to salvage this waste of a birthday somehow.

“I’m just heading over to Zack’s for a bit,” I told Mum on my way out.

She barely looked up from her computer. “Sure, sure.” Then, maybe remembering she was supposed to be a responsible adult and it was almost 10pm, she added, “Don’t get back too late.”

What would she care? I could stay out all night and she probably wouldn’t notice.

Zack was already at our meeting spot, across the road from our homes, by the biggest gum tree. He was standing under the glow of the lone streetlight, and it looked like he had a halo.

We’d known each other since we were seven years old, when Zack first moved in next door. The removalist truck had barely pulled out of the driveway before he poked his head over our back fence. And that was it, we were fast friends.

He was carrying a clipboard. Two clipboards, in fact, and two navy blue caps. He nudged a cap onto my head and slotted the other one on his own.

“What’s this?”

He was grinning at me sheepishly. “I’m saving you from obsessing about other people’s social media stupidity or watching too many videos of huskies singing.”

“Wait, how did you know about the huskies?” I shoved him playfully. “Do you know everything now?”

He rolled his eyes like it was obvious. “Tilly, I don’t need to know everything. I know you.”

Before I could dwell on that further, he handed me one of the clipboards. Attached to it was a sheet of paper titled “Tilly’s Birthday Scavenger Hunt & Quiz”, with sixteen lines and checkboxes underneath.

“What’s this about? What are you up to?”

“It’s what we’re going to get up to. Together. Quick, that’s our train.”

Hearing the clanging of the railroad crossing, we launched towards the platform and slunk into a seat in the last carriage. The carriage was empty except for one dude hunched over his phone, and another tapping his leg compulsively, music echoing from his headphones.

We got off in the city, Adelaide Central, which was weirdly quiet except for a group who looked like they were still partying from the night before. We made a beeline for the exit, Zack racing me up the stairs as I sailed up the escalator and onto the tram.

“What’s this, musical public transport?” I asked.

“Two stops,” Zack said, holding up two fingers.

The tram was near empty too. Everyone else was obviously still hungover from their New Year’s festivities the night before, or floating in a pool somewhere or lounging at the beach.

I’d spent New Year’s Eve at Zack’s house, thank God. A small birthday salvation. When the annual invitation arrived, Mum said, “Of course, we’d love to come.” But then, like always, she piked at the last minute.

At least Zack’s mum cared. Just after midnight, she rolled out the traditional Bailey family Black Forest birthday cake, like she always did, and made everyone sing ‘Happy Birthday’, like she always did. She knew you were never too old or unimportant for birthdays.

“Out,” Zack directed. He marched me off the tram and down the footpath, until we were standing outside the Royal Women’s & Children’s Hospital, staring up at the six-storey, cement-slab building.

“Item number one,” said Zack, raising one finger.

“Item number one?”

“Yes.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a list, reading aloud. “Here is the place where one Matilda Anne Zeeta was born, sixteen years ago. Here’s your first question.”

I must have looked bemused. Zack raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Tilly, follow along. This is the first question in the Tilly Zeeta Birthday Scavenger Hunt and Quiz.”

“Wait, won’t I know all the answers if the questions are all about me?”

“Oooh, she’s confident.”

“And wait. Don’t you already know all the answers too, because you came up with the questions?”

“What’s your point, Tilly?”

“Nothing. Proceed.”

“Right.” He straightened up as though he was about to make an important announcement. “This is the place where one Matilda Anne Zeeta was born, sixteen years ago. Was she born before lunch or after lunch?”

“Before!” I said, quickly, as though I’d hit the game show buzzer first.

“Did she weigh over 7 pounds or under 7 pounds?”

“Over!”

“Was she the best-looking baby on the ward or the worst?”

“The best!”

“Congratulations, Tilly.” He winked. “You’ve answered all three questions correctly.”

“Wait a minute. How did you know the answer to that last one?”

Zack rolled his eyes. “As if I haven’t heard your mum tell the story once or twice.” He flashed his hands at me, fingers splayed. “Okay, 50 times.”

That was my mum. She had a few stories that she loved retelling. The one about growing up poor, with only Grams and Auntie Maura to look after her. The one about how she topped her law degree because of how hard she worked, and the one about how all the nurses said I was the prettiest baby they’d ever seen.

You’d have thought that last story was about me. But the way Mum told it, it was a brag about her remarkable ability to pop out such a pretty little baby. Kudos to her!

Funny how my dad was never part of that story. Not ever. Was it because he was a loser and took off? Or he was a billionaire recluse who lived on an island? Who knew? Mum never told me, and I stopped asking ages ago.

Grams never said anything, either. She took that to the grave.

Zack was tapping his clipboard. “Right. Race you to Ward B3, where we’ll raid the vending machine.” We took off, both hustling to get to the lift first.

There were fifteen other stops on our Birthday Scavenger Hunt and Quiz extravaganza. This actually would take all night. I checked my phone, but there was nothing from Mum. Good. Great. She didn’t care and neither did I.

Twelve stops down we were shooting goals at the Southern Districts netball courts. There was just enough of a glow from the clubhouse rooms to make the court slightly less than pitch black.

That was Zack’s first excuse. “It’s dark, Tilly! What do you expect?”

I flung him the ball, hands on my hips, not even defending his shot. “Do you think you might get at least one goal before dawn? Maybe?”

I played goal shooter all through primary school and was pretty good. I’ve got the trophies to prove it. But Zack had never played netball, or any sport for that matter.

That was his second excuse. “Tilly! You know I’m not a sporty jock. Cut me some slack here.”

“I thought this was a competition. Don’t like losing, huh?”

I poked my tongue out at him because he was probably the least competitive person and the least likely to be a sore loser I’d ever met.

By some fluke, Zack landed a shot.

“Yeeessss!” He was whooping, doing a victory lap of the court.

“Wait, what just happened? Did I miss something?”

Zack stopped short. “You did not just say that.”

I smirked.

“That was the best, the most monumental, the most spectacular goal of the night.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, slow clapping. “Well done. You got a goal. Now you only need a hundred more to beat me.”

“Nope,” he said. “That’s it. We’re done here. I’m finishing on a high. Plus, we’ve got to get to our next stop.”

He stashed the netball under the bushes near the courts, then we were off to my old school, Heathgrove Primary, to swing on the monkey bars.

I remembered the playground being so much more impressive. Eliza and I used to race to the monkey bars at lunchtime to get there first. First meant territory.

But now they looked in need of either a coat of paint or complete replacement. Heathgrove was the opposite of Zack’s private school, with its luscious grounds and palatial buildings.

Mum probably could have afforded to send me to Callington College. She was successful enough, running her own small family law practice. But she believed in public education. “It was good enough for me, so it’s good enough for you,” she liked to say.

She worked hard at school to get a scholarship for university and then worked hard at university to get an internship. But the hard work never stopped, and now it defined her. Good on you, Mum.

“Okay,” Zack, said, checking off his list. “Let’s see how many times you can go back and forth on the monkey bars without letting go.”

I shook my head. “Really? Do you want to be here all night? You do know Eliza and I were world champions on this thing, right?”

Zack looked defiant. “Prove it.”

Eleven times. And it would have been a hundred more if Zack hadn’t tickled me so I’d let go.

Zack only managed three times. “What?” he said. “I’ve got delicate hands.” He waved them at me like a royal.

Huh. I won again. That was fifteen out of sixteen to me. Not that I was counting.

Last stop was Maccas. Yes, food. It was definitely time for food. We were sitting on the kerb at the back of the McDonald’s car park with cheeseburgers, fries and soft serves. An early breakfast, really—it was almost dawn.

I was dipping fries into my soft serve while Zack flicked through his phone in preparation for the last challenge.

“Okay, Tilly. Last challenge. So, would you eat pickles and yogurt together?”

Ah, weird food combo hypotheticals. Zack knew I was a foodie and he was trying to catch me out. If I shuddered, even minutely, he won.

“What flavour yogurt?” I asked, taking a bite of my cheeseburger.

“Peach.”

“And what type of pickles?’

“Sour pickles.”

I shrugged. “Sure.” No flinching.

“What about blue cheese and slimy tofu?”

“You mean, silken tofu?”

“No, slimy. Really slimy.”

I shrugged again. “Of course.” He switched to rapid fire, trying to catch me out.

“What about anchovies and banana pie?”

Damn. He knew bananas weren’t my favourite.

“Do you mean banoffee pie?”

“No,” he said. “Not banoffee. No cream or caramel or whatever else is in those banoffee things. Just the ripest, squishiest, most banana-ery, banana pie. All banana.”

He almost had me. I had to divert. “How many bites?”

“The magic three, Tilly.”

I paused as though I was seriously considering saying no. He thought he had me. “You know I would.”

“Without throwing up?”

“Stomach of steel. You know that.”

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, okay, you win.” He launched himself up from the kerb. “In fact, I hereby declare you the winner of the Birthday Scavenger Hunt and Quiz Extravaganza.”

“You know it,” I said, grinning.

“Here’s your prize.” He pulled out a gold, first-place ribbon from his backpack and handed it over ceremoniously. “Speech, speech,” he cheered.

Gawd. This boy. I couldn’t wish for a better friend. He’d single-handedly saved my sixteenth birthday.

“Umm …” I hesitated.

Did I give the speech I really wanted to? About how for as long as I could remember, I’d been dreaming that it would be on my sixteenth birthday, that one special day, when my dad would walk through our front door and my life would change forever?

That’s why he hadn’t turned up on any other birthdays. He was waiting for my ‘sweet sixteen’, so it would be extra special. He’d bring a beautiful gift. A delicate silver necklace with a ‘T’ charm that he’d thread around my neck, beaming with pride.

Then he’d drive me down to the beach and we’d stroll along the boardwalk, eating ice cream—cookies and cream for me and double choc for him—and I wouldn’t even care that there were so many other families down there swimming or playing beach volleyball or just lazing in the sun, like I normally did. Because my dad was here. I had a dad.

That was my dream. My wildest dream. But as my sixteenth birthday approached, I had begun to realise that it was actually a delusional fantasy. I may as well have been asking for a billion dollars to fall from the sky or world peace to be declared or climate change to, you know, be taken seriously.

I’d never really told Zack about my dad. Probably because there wasn’t much to say, and probably because it pinged too many feelings, ones I didn’t want to feel. So I hadn’t said anything. Not last night and not ever.

Zack was waiting expectingly with a big grin on his face. No, I was not giving that speech. I didn’t want to bring down the vibe. Time to retreat to safer ground.

“Thank you, thank you, legions of fans,” I swept my arms about, giving a bow in all directions. “I’d like to thank my cat Luna for teaching me all that I know about staying up all night. Apparently, all you need to do is sleep all day and then it’s easy.”

Zack chuckled.

“I’d like to thank my mum for not caring where the hell I am at all hours of the day, let alone all hours of the night.” I’d checked my phone several times throughout the night. Nothing.

That got a raised eyebrow from Zack.

“And, most importantly, I’d like to thank the scavenger hunt and quiz maestro for making this so much fun.” My voice softened, and Zack’s chuckle turned into a shy grin.

I was studying him. Couldn’t look away. That grin was so endearing.

Hmm. Maybe Eliza was right. Last time she’d seen Zack, she’d squealed about how cute he was. 1000% cute, apparently. Was he?

Watching him now, I could sort of see it, with his hazel eyes and chestnut coloured hair. And that grin. That super cute grin. Why hadn’t I noticed that before?

“You are very welcome, Tilly,” he said, shyly turning away, scooping up the rubbish and lobbing it in the bin. “We should probably go before the parentals get wind of this.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said, yawning. Not that I wanted this to end. I could’ve stayed in this twilight zone forever.

Sure, I could sleep all day, but then what? More days of monotonous summer? Zack couldn’t entertain me the entire holidays.

We begrudgingly shuffled back home, stopping at the end of my driveway.

Zack tipped his hat like a gentleman. “There you go,” he said. “A magical, mystery tour of your first sixteen years of life.”

I tipped my hat back at him. “A mighty fine tour indeed. You’ve outdone yourself, Mr Bailey.”

“Yep, well.” Zack looked away, scuffing his feet. “You couldn’t have an ordinary birthday, Tilly. Not this year.”

My smile faded. It was never meant to be an ordinary day. But dreams rarely come true, do they? Maybe for other people they do. But not for me.

I gave Zack a hug, so grateful for his thoughtfulness, for taking me on a birthday adventure that distracted me, made me laugh, and chased away that feeling of deep disappointment in the pit of my stomach.

Because it seemed like there was a different feeling settling in my stomach now. A fluttering. A lightness that made me feel a little jittery and excited. And that made me want to cling on to him for longer, and maybe never let him go.

Maybe he was feeling it too, because he didn’t seem ready to pry himself away either. Embarrassed, I pulled back.

“Umm. Thanks, Zack.” I couldn’t look him in the eye. “You’re the best.”

“Oh!” he said, skilfully switching the conversation. “I almost forgot. I do have a present for you.” He looked a little sheepish. “But it’s still on its way.”

I brushed the comment aside, even though I was curious. What would Zack get me, I wondered, since this birthday was, according to him, so special? “That’s fine, Zack. Tonight was more than enough.”

“No,” he held up a hand. “No arguing. I have a present.”

“Okay.” I smiled. A present from Zack? Probably not a lame book voucher.

My phone buzzed. Oh, no. Really? A message from Mum. “YOU NEED TO BE HOME NOW.” And yes, it was all in caps.

*

Two

“What is it?” asked Zack.

I shrugged. “Just some shouty message from my mum.” Reluctantly, I said, “I’d better go in.”

I pushed through the front door half expecting Mum to be mad at me. Not that she had any right to be. She was never the kind of parent who really looked after me. She was hardly a parent at all.

Grams was the one who cared for me, the one who cared about me. Now that Grams was gone, there was no one really. Mum’s life had gone on unchanged, business as usual. Work, work, work.

It was my life that had changed. A big, massive grenade had been detonated in my life, leaving a massive hole. Some days it was unbearable. Every day, in fact.

But now was not the time to go there. I had to deal with Mum.

I wondered if I should come up with an excuse. “Yeah, I went to Zack’s last night. But then I came home. Then I got up early and went to Zack’s again. What’s your problem?” But I was too tired, and I didn’t really care.

Besides, Mum wasn’t mad at me, and she wasn’t alone. There was a man sitting at the dining room table opposite her. He was around her age, with greying flecks in his hair, wire frame glasses, tan chinos and a green check short-sleeve shirt.

Mum’s hands were pressed together on the table in front of her. It was the pose I imagined she used with opposing counsel during tense negotiations. But why was she using it now, with this man? Was he a client? Here in our house? So early?

The man noticed me first. He sprung up from his chair, took two steps towards me, then hesitated, glancing back at Mum as if to ask, “Is this okay?”

Mum rose too, more slowly, more carefully. She came up beside me, took my arm and turned to face him. His eyes were flicking from me to Mum, then back to me. He had those eyes that crinkle at the edges. Handsome eyes.

My mum cleared her throat. She seemed nervous. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her nervous. She was always cool confidence or bustling busyness or both. But now, it was as though she was trying to steady herself.

She cleared her throat again. “Tilly,” she said, turning slightly towards me, “we’ve got a visitor.”

Was this one of Grams’ long-lost relatives? We had a few turn up over the months after she died, apologising for not being able to attend the funeral, offering their condolences, along with baked goods. But this felt different. And there were no baked goods.

“This is …” Mum hesitated, then continued, “Mitchell Monaghey. He’s an English Professor, I mean, Associate Professor at New England University. In Armidale. New South Wales”

Right. Fine. Good to know. But what the hell was this nice-looking Associate Professor doing in our home?

Mitchell rushed forward. “Lovely to meet you, Tilly,” he said, shaking my hand. His hands were warm, his face hopeful. “Your mum has been telling me all about you.”

He took a respectable step back. “All good things,” he added. He was smiling, but there was an uneasiness there. He was nervous too. Why was this man nervous about meeting me?

I registered his eyes. They were the hazel side of green, just like mine.

His skin tone was kind of rosy like mine, too.

And although his hair was considerably shorter, and had those flecks of grey, it was also ash brown and wavy, just like mine.

Wait, could he be—

My stomach plummeted to the floor the exact instant Mum said, “Tilly, this is your father.”

This is your father. Weren’t those the words I’d been waiting sixteen years to hear? And was this the man I’d expected to see? This neat, uncomplicated academic with an open face and a friendly gaze?

Where the hell had he been all these years? The last time I asked Mum about my dad she snapped, ‘He left, okay? That’s it, Tilly!”

She might as well have said, “Case closed.” The judge and jury had decided. There was nothing more to say.

I knew never to ask her about him again, but I’d run her words over in my mind so many times since. “He left.” What did that actually mean?

He left me? He left my mum? He couldn’t leave fast enough? Or did he leave with regret? I tried so hard to make those two words make sense, but they never really did.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about it and concluded that he’d left Mum. My mum was very leave-able. She was hardly here as it was. Work called. Constantly.

But there was still this well of hurt within me, because leaving Mum meant he also left me, didn’t it? We were a package deal. Wasn’t I worth staying for?

That was too devastating a concept to contemplate, so I chose to believe something else. That maybe, just maybe, he was coming back for me. One day. Maybe on my sixteenth birthday, for no other reason than it seemed kind of poetic. And because, hopefully, it would give him enough time to trek back from wherever he was.

Now, here he was, the day after my sixteenth birthday, standing across from me. Case definitely not closed. Your Honour, we need to re-open proceedings. New evidence has come to light. Please note Exhibit A. My dad. Standing. In front. Of me.

This was too much. Waaay too much. So I did what any normal sixteen-year-old would do when introduced to the dad they’ve never known. I bolted for my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

*