Suburban Bogan Attire

"You can tell a lot about someone by what they wear to answer the door — confidence, chaos, or just couldn’t be arsed."

The drive back through Hobart was different from the drive out.

The fog had properly burnt off now, the sun finally deciding to commit to being present after its half-hearted morning attempt. The sky had shifted from that oppressive grey to something approaching blue, though still washed out, still winter-pale. Traffic thickened as I got closer to the city—the usual crawl through the roundabouts and lights that made Hobart feel bigger than it actually was.

The peace of the Huon Valley had faded completely now, replaced by the familiar irritation of stop-start driving and indicators that didn't indicate and people who couldn't merge properly.

I stopped at a servo in Glenorchy to grab something to eat. Just a pie from the hot box—beef and mushroom, the packaging claimed, though the filling could have been anything—and a can of Coke. Stood there eating it in the car park, leaning against the truck, watching people come and go. Trying not to think about anything.

The pie was dry, the pastry crumbling in a way that suggested it had been under the heat lamp since dawn. The Coke was flat, that particular disappointment of gas that had escaped somewhere between the factory and my mouth. I ate it anyway, because I was hungry and because stopping meant I didn't have to think, and thinking was the last thing I wanted to do.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Mum: Are you okay? x

I stared at it for a long moment, standing there in the servo car park with grease on my fingers and crumbs down my shirt. The little kiss at the end of the message hit me harder than it should have. She always signed off with that x, had done for as long as I could remember. A small gesture of love that now felt complicated in ways it never had before.

Are you okay?

Was I? I had no idea how to answer that question. I wasn't sure I even knew what okay meant anymore.

I put the phone back in my pocket without replying.

Berriedale was north of the city, up the Brooker Highway into the northern suburbs. I knew the area vaguely—I'd done a few deliveries out here before, though not many. It was part of Glenorchy council technically, but it felt worlds away from our street with its cramped houses and overgrown yards and the constant background noise of people living too close together.

The drive took me past the turn-off to the depot, past the industrial estates with their corrugated sheds and chain-link fences, past the car yards that lined the highway with their fluttering flags and desperate signs promising easy finance. Then out into proper suburbia, where the landscape changed in ways that were subtle but unmistakable.

The houses got nicer the further north I went.

Bigger blocks. Actual gardens instead of patchy grass and weeds and the occasional shopping trolley someone had abandoned. Driveways that could fit two cars. Fences that weren't falling down. The kind of streets where people washed their cars on Saturday mornings and knew their neighbours' names and probably held barbecues where everyone brought a plate and nobody got into a fistfight.

The Brooker Highway cut straight through Berriedale, splitting it down the middle like a scar that had never quite healed. On one side you could see glimpses of the Derwent River between houses—all grey-blue and flat in the winter light, stretching away towards the distant shore. On the other side, the suburb sprawled back towards the hills, houses climbing up gentle slopes, each one positioned to catch the view that the ones below had paid slightly less for.

It was quiet out here. Properly quiet.

Not the kind of quiet you get in the middle of the night in Glenorchy when everyone's finally gone to bed and stopped yelling at each other, when the dogs have stopped barking and the hoons have finished doing burnouts on the corner. This was daytime quiet—the sound of a suburb where people were at work earning proper money, kids were at school learning things that would get them into university, and the most exciting thing happening was someone mowing their lawn with a ride-on mower that probably cost more than my car.

I'd never been to MONA—that massive art museum everyone banged on about, the one that had put Tasmania on the international map and made David Walsh famous. I knew it was out here somewhere, hidden away on the riverbank, probably full of things I wouldn't understand. Art that needed a university degree to appreciate, installations that meant something profound if you had the right education to decode them.

Not really my scene.

But it had put Berriedale on the map, made it the kind of place tourists visited instead of just drove through on their way to somewhere else. Made the property values climb, I supposed. Made it the kind of suburb where delivery drivers from Glenorchy felt like they were visiting a foreign country.

I found Wallcrest Road without too much trouble—it branched off from the main road, winding up a steep slope towards the higher ground. The road was newer than most of the surrounding area; you could tell by the uniformity of it all, the way the houses sat on their blocks like they'd been placed there by the same hand at the same time.

Probably built in the last ten or fifteen years, back when this was still paddocks and someone with money and vision had seen an opportunity.

Brick veneer mostly, a few weatherboard, the kind of places that looked like they'd been designed by the same three builders using the same three floor plans. Variations on a theme: double garage, pitched roof, feature window, rendered finish in colours that were meant to be tasteful and ended up being forgettable.

The blocks were decent-sized—not huge, not tiny. Big enough for a proper backyard where kids could run around, a shed where dads could pretend to do woodworking, maybe a veggie garden if you were into that sort of thing. Most of the houses sat up slightly from the street level, taking advantage of the slope, their driveways climbing at angles that would be annoying in the rain.

From some of those driveways I could glimpse the Derwent River in the distance, all grey-blue between the rooflines, a reminder that even the suburbs had views if you could afford them.

It was the kind of place where people actually mowed their lawns. Where the bins all matched and got put out on the right night. Where cars in driveways were newer models, Mazdas and Toyotas and the occasional European import, not held together with rust and optimism like the Corolla.

Quiet. Respectable. The sort of place where neighbours probably said hello and knew each other's names but didn't get too involved in each other's business. The sort of place where problems stayed behind closed doors and everyone maintained the polite fiction that everything was fine.

Number 2 was near the start of the street, on the right.

The house was set back from the road a bit, its driveway curving into the property. Typical Australian suburban build—cream-coloured brick with a low-pitched roof and those big windows that were popular a decade or so back, the kind that let in lots of light but probably cost a fortune to heat in winter.

Split-level, with the upper floor sprawling across the block in a way that suggested space and comfort. The kind of layout that promised three or four bedrooms, open-plan living, all the mod cons that advertising brochures made sound essential. An ensuite. A walk-in robe. A kitchen island. Whatever it was that people with money thought they needed to be happy.

The front yard was neat—not immaculate, not the work of a professional gardener, but maintained. Someone cared enough to keep things presentable. Some native plants doing their native thing, a bit of lawn that had been mowed recently enough, a path leading to the front door.

I yawned widely, without bothering to hide it, as I manoeuvred the truck up the incline towards the driveway.

The engine strained against the slope—the truck hated hills at the best of times, and with a full load in the back it really made its feelings known. That particular whine of gears working too hard, the shudder through the steering wheel that said I'm not built for this.

I could feel the fatigue of the morning properly settling into my bones now. The servo pie sat heavy and uncomfortable in my stomach, a solid lump of regret. My eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, from lying awake half the night thinking about birth certificates and names that should have been gravestones.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The job didn't care how I felt.

I killed the engine and sat there for a second, looking at the house through the windscreen.

It was nice. Really nice.

The kind of place that probably cost more than Mum and I would earn in ten years combined. The kind of place with a mortgage that would make your eyes water, where the monthly repayments were more than our entire annual rent. The kind of place that existed in a completely different financial universe from 14 Bowden Street with its brown carpet and rattling fridge and cracks in the ceiling we couldn't afford to fix.

"Luke Smith," I read the name aloud from the paperwork, trying to refocus my mind on the task at hand. Just another delivery. Just another address. Just another stranger who'd ordered something they probably didn't need with money they probably had plenty of.

Right. Get it done and move on.

Stepping back out into the air—vaguely warmer now, the sun doing its job at last—I opened the back of the truck and quickly glanced at the paperwork again.

"Oh, it's a big one," I groaned upon realising the size of the order. It was going to be a challenge.

The back of the truck was packed with boxes. Big boxes. Massive boxes. All of them with the same supplier label, all of them marked "TENT - HANDLE WITH CARE." I counted them quickly, my heart sinking with each number.

Eight boxes. Eight massive boxes.

What the fuck did someone need with this much tent? Were they planning to shelter a small army? Start their own refugee camp? Host the world's most ambitious camping trip?

After a moment of mentally preparing myself—bracing myself, really, because my arms were already sore from the Huonville delivery and my lower back was starting to make its complaints known—I began gathering the large tent boxes, stacking them meticulously at the edge of the truck.

Each box felt heavier than the last, my muscles protesting with each lift. The cardboard was slippery under my hands, that particular texture of brand-new boxes that haven't been beaten up yet, all smooth surfaces and sharp edges. Once everything was in place, ready for transfer, I approached the front door, my steps slowing as I stood on the narrow porch.

The porch was tidy. A doormat that said "Welcome" in a font that was trying too hard to be cheerful, the letters slightly faded from weather and footfall. A pot plant—some kind of succulent, still alive, its fleshy leaves a healthy green—which was more than could be said for any plant that entered our house in Glenorchy.

I allowed myself a few moments to gaze out over the vacant corner block beside the house, taking in the quiet suburban scene. The block was empty, just grass and a few scraggly trees, waiting for someone to build another expensive house on it. Beyond that, other rooftops, other lives, other people going about their Wednesday without their worlds falling apart.

It was properly quiet here. No traffic noise from the highway, which must have been blocked by the houses in between. No dogs barking—well, not yet. Just the sound of wind in the trees and somewhere, distantly, a lawn mower doing its slow suburban work.

This is what money buys you, I thought, letting the observation settle into my chest where it sat alongside everything else I was trying not to feel. Not just a house. Quiet. Space. The ability to not hear your neighbours arguing through the walls.

The ability to have problems that were different from mine.

Then, I rapped my knuckles sharply on the front door, the sound echoing slightly in the stillness of the street.

Almost instantly, the sound of a dog barking erupted from inside the house.

Actually, two dogs—I could hear two distinct pitches of yapping. High-pitched, frantic, the kind of barking that small dogs do when they're more excited than aggressive, when the arrival of anyone at all is the most thrilling thing that's happened since breakfast.

I sighed inwardly. A large order and dogs. Even better, I thought with a hint of sarcasm. Because my morning hadn't been interesting enough already.

The door flung open abruptly, revealing a middle-aged man in the doorway.

A small brown and white Shih Tzu was cradled in his arms, its tongue hanging out, its eyes bulging in that particular way Shih Tzus have. The other dog—another Shih Tzu, this one fluffier and chubbier—was at his feet, still yapping with enthusiastic determination at the stranger who'd interrupted their day.

I had to work to keep my face neutral.

The bloke was maybe mid-thirties, tall—taller than me, which wasn't hard at five-seven—with dark hair cut short, practically a buzz cut. Still managed to look dishevelled somehow, which was impressive given there wasn't much hair to mess up. Just something about the way it sat, maybe, or the fact that he clearly hadn't looked in a mirror recently.

He had this distracted look about him, like his body was here answering the door but his mind was somewhere else entirely, thinking about things that had nothing to do with deliveries or the young bloke standing on his porch. Eyes not quite focused. The look of someone who'd been interrupted in the middle of something important and was still mentally there, still working through whatever problem had claimed his attention.

And he was... right. His attire was something.

I couldn't help but smile to myself, though I kept it internal, held behind my professional delivery-driver face. After my earlier encounter with Mrs Woolley in her nightie and gum boots, I found myself more attuned to the peculiarities of people's at-home attire. The things they wore when they weren't expecting company, or when they stopped caring whether they were expecting company or not.

This must be standard suburban bogan attire, I mused silently, observing the man's bare chest and bare feet, his damp, well-fitting shorts leaving little to the imagination.

Not athletic shorts exactly—just regular shorts that happened to fit snugly, the kind you might wear around the house when you weren't planning to see anyone. His chest had a decent amount of dark hair, and his skin had that olive tone some people just naturally had—Mediterranean or Greek maybe, or some ancestry that gave him colouring that probably tanned well in summer when the rest of us burned and peeled.

The kind of body that said "I don't do manual labour for a living."

And he was damp—actually damp, like he'd just gotten out of the shower and hadn't bothered to dry off properly before answering the door. Water still beading on his shoulders, his shorts showing dark patches where the moisture had soaked through.

I chuckled internally at the thought, amused by the stark contrast to the rural charm of my earlier delivery. Mrs Woolley's nightie and gum boots had been eccentric in a wholesome, country way. This was just... I don't know. Suburban chaos. A man caught between whatever he'd been doing and whatever he was supposed to be doing now.

But then, I quickly snapped back to reality, remembering the task at hand.

I had a job to do, and regardless of the peculiarities of each delivery, it was my responsibility to see it through. With a professional demeanour, I prepared to handle the delivery, pushing aside my amusement to focus on the job. Eight boxes of tent weren't going to deliver themselves.

"Are you Luke Smith?" I asked, addressing the man in the doorway, trying to maintain a neutral tone despite the peculiarity of his attire. Professional. Polite. The good delivery driver who didn't judge.

"Ah, yes," he replied with a casual nod, seemingly oblivious to the unusual nature of his appearance. His voice had that particular quality of someone who's thinking about something else whilst talking to you. Distracted. Preoccupied. Present but not entirely.

The dog in his arms—the brown and white one—was staring at me with those bulging Shih Tzu eyes, tongue hanging out, assessing me with the intensity of something that had nothing better to do. The other one at his feet had stopped barking and was now sniffing the air suspiciously, like it was trying to determine if I was friend or foe and wasn't quite ready to commit to either verdict.

"I have a delivery for you," I stated, getting straight to the point. Eight boxes. Let's get this done.

"Gee, that really was quick," Luke commented, a hint of surprise in his voice. He seemed genuinely taken aback, like he'd forgotten he'd even ordered anything. Or like he'd expected it to take longer. His eyebrows rose slightly, creating wrinkles across his forehead.

"This one must have been in our local supplier's warehouse," I explained, offering a logical reason for the speedy delivery. It wasn't uncommon for local stock to expedite the process.

Though honestly, I had no idea. Garry had routed it, Garry had loaded it, I was just the one driving it around. The logistics of how things got from warehouses to trucks to doorsteps was above my pay grade.

"Were there any more left, did you see?" Luke asked, his curiosity evident. It seemed the tents were in high demand. Or he needed more than eight boxes' worth, which seemed insane. What was he planning, a small village?

I paused, considering his question. The supplier was one of the few in the state with these particular tents—I'd seen the name on the boxes, some outdoor equipment company that probably charged too much because they could.

"You'd have to check with the supplier directly," I replied. It was the best advice I could offer, given that I didn't have visibility into the supplier's stock levels. Also, mate, you've got eight boxes here. What more could you possibly need?

"Now, if you could just sign down here for me, please," I continued, handing over the manifest to Luke. I pointed to the line next to his name, ready to finalise the transaction.

The sooner I got this done, the sooner I could get back on the road, get through the rest of the day, get home, get into bed, and not think about anything. Not think about birth certificates. Not think about fathers who weren't dead. Not think about any of it.

Luke reached out for the paper, but before he could grasp it, his Shih Tzu—the one in his arms—displayed a surprising burst of agility.

With a swift, almost comically precise movement, the dog snatched the paper right out of my hand. Its little jaws clamped down on the corner with unexpected speed, and then, as if realising its mischief, the dog casually dropped it to the floor. Just let it fall, like it had suddenly lost interest in the game it had started.

"Duke!" Luke exclaimed in exasperation. "Naughty." His tone was a mix of surprise and mild irritation, but mostly just tired. Like this was the latest in a long series of things going wrong today, the latest in a long series of times Duke had done something like this.

I watched, a sense of amusement growing inside me despite everything. This was definitely not an everyday occurrence on my delivery rounds. Most people just signed the paper and let me leave.

The paper had fluttered down onto the marbled tiles just inside the doorway—I could see past Luke now into the house, which was surprisingly immaculate. Clean lines, careful arrangement, nothing out of place. Not what I'd expected from the man who'd answered the door half-dressed and dripping.

As Luke tried to wrangle Duke, shifting the dog from one arm to the other in an increasingly awkward dance, the second Shih Tzu—the fluffy one—seized the moment. The second dog scooped up the manifest in its mouth and darted off with it, turning the situation into a comical chase.

"Henri!" Luke's voice echoed with frustration, calling after the escaping dog. It was clear this wasn't the first time the dogs had teamed up in their antics. A coordinated operation, the distraction and the snatch.

He looked at me helplessly for a second, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and resignation. Then he sighed and set Duke down. Both dogs immediately took off deeper into the house, Henri with the manifest flapping from its jaws like a prize, Duke in pursuit because that was clearly more interesting than staying at the door.

Trying hard to suppress a laugh, I watched as Luke hurried after Henri, disappearing into another part of the house. His bare feet slapped against the marbled tiles, the sound echoing through the open-plan space.

"Sorry. Won't be a second," he called out over his shoulder.

Left alone at the doorway, I stood there in the suburban quiet, marvelling at the chaos that had just unfolded. My mind began to drift, humorously categorising the situation as "standard... bogan..." But my internal musings were interrupted as my eyes wandered into the living room.

The interior of the house was nothing like what I'd expected from the bloke answering the door in damp shorts.

There, mounted on the wall, was a massive television—easily an eighty-inch screen, I muttered to myself in awe. The thing was enormous, dominating the room, probably cost more than my car. More than several of my cars, if I was honest about what the Corolla was actually worth.

My gaze followed the open-plan layout into a large, meticulously clean kitchen.

The grey streaks of the white, marbled tiles beautifully complemented the dark charcoal colour scheme—all modern appliances gleaming under the downlights, stone benchtops that probably needed special cleaning products, one of those fancy tap things that probably did instant boiling water or filtered sparkling or whatever it was that people with money needed their taps to do.

The deliberate aesthetic choice was impressive. Someone had thought about this. Someone had hired a designer, or spent hours on Pinterest, or just naturally had taste that I couldn't begin to understand.

Perhaps not so bogan after all, I thought, reassessing my initial judgement.

The whole place was immaculate. Not just clean, but styled. Like something out of a magazine, one of those home design publications that Mum sometimes flicked through at the doctor's waiting room.

There wasn't a dish in the sink—I couldn't even see the sink, but I was certain it was empty and sparkling. There wasn't a thing out of place. Cushions on the couch were arranged just so, perfectly parallel, like someone had measured the angles. The coffee table had some kind of artful arrangement of candles and a bowl of decorative stones or something, the kind of thing that served no purpose except to look expensive.

It was the kind of house that made our place in Glenorchy look like exactly what it was—tired, cramped, held together by necessity rather than design. A house where things matched because someone had chosen them to match, not because they'd been bought secondhand or found on the side of the road.

I heard Luke's voice from somewhere deeper in the house, still trying to negotiate with the dogs.

"Henri, drop it. Drop it. Good boy. No, don't—Henri!"

The sound of scampering paws on tiles. A brief bark. Something that might have been a collision with furniture.

"Where do you want it?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the spacious house. Might as well start moving boxes while he dealt with his canine insurgents.

"Just wherever for now," Luke's distant reply came, slightly breathless. "I'll move it later."

Right. Wherever.

I looked at the eight massive boxes still stacked at the truck. Then I looked at the pristine living room with its carefully arranged cushions and its decorative stones and its general air of expensive good taste.

This is going to look ridiculous.

I set to work, efficiently moving every tent box that I had leaned against the truck, stacking them neatly in the living room. Well, as neatly as you can stack eight enormous boxes in a space that wasn't designed to be a warehouse.

The boxes were more numerous than they appeared in the confines of the truck—they seemed to multiply once you actually had to carry them somewhere. Each trip from the truck to the house, I could feel my muscles complaining more insistently. My lower back was starting to ache in that specific way that promised trouble tomorrow.

The boxes weren't impossibly heavy individually, but repetitive lifting added up. That's what they didn't tell you about this job—it wasn't any single thing that got you, it was the accumulation. The tenth box felt like twice the weight of the first.

By the time I'd finished, the pristine living room looked like a warehouse.

The boxes dominated the space, completely dwarfing the carefully arranged furniture. That artful coffee table with its candles and stones? Buried behind cardboard. The perfect cushions? Hidden from view. The whole aesthetic the house had going on—the charcoal colour scheme, the deliberate styling, the magazine-worthy arrangement—was now completely obscured by packing labels and supplier stickers and warnings to HANDLE WITH CARE.

"What the..." Luke's voice trailed off in surprise when he re-entered the room, the manifest finally in hand, slightly damp and tooth-marked. "I didn't realise there would be so many boxes."

He stood there in his damp shorts, holding the crumpled paper, staring at the boxes like they'd appeared through some kind of magic rather than him having ordered them. Like he was seeing the consequences of his own decisions for the first time and wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it.

"Yes," I reiterated, a hint of surprise in my own voice as I took in the sheer volume of the delivery. "I believe you've ordered one of the largest family tents on the market. Borderline military grade." The words hung in the air, emphasising the enormity of the task ahead for Luke.

I'd seen the description on the order form back at the depot. "Family tent" was generous. This thing was basically a portable building. The kind of tent you could host a wedding in, or shelter a small platoon. Whatever Luke was planning, it wasn't a casual weekend camping trip.

"Crap," Luke exclaimed, his hands finding their way to his hips in a gesture of overwhelmed contemplation. His eyes darted around the room, like he was trying to work out where he'd even begin to deal with this situation. Where to put it all. How to assemble it. What he'd been thinking when he clicked "order."

For a second, he looked genuinely lost. Like someone who'd made a decision and was only now realising the consequences of that decision. Like someone who'd bitten off more than they could chew and was standing there with their mouth full, unable to swallow.

I knew that look. I'd worn it myself, more times than I could count.

Seizing the opportunity, I ventured, "For a small fee I can give you a bit of a demonstration on how to piece it all together?"

I'd never actually put up a tent myself—well, not one bigger than the two-person dome tent Mum and I had used for that one camping trip when I was twelve, the one where it rained the whole time and we'd ended up sleeping in the car.

But how hard could it be? Following instructions and improvising were skills I'd honed over time, out of necessity more than choice. And I could use the extra cash. Even twenty bucks would help. Would buy groceries, would pay part of a bill, would be something.

"Thanks, but my brother is arriving shortly so I'll get him to look at it," Luke declined my offer, still staring at the boxes with that overwhelmed expression. His brother, apparently, was better equipped to deal with military-grade tent assembly. Lucky brother.

I suppressed a sigh, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

The prospect of earning some extra cash had been appealing, a small bonus in my otherwise routine day. A bit of padding in the wallet, something to show for the morning beyond sore arms and a mind full of thoughts I didn't want.

But it was worth a shot, I reassured myself. Time to wrap this up.

"Your signature," I prompted, pointing to the manifest Luke still absentmindedly held. The paper was properly mangled now, wrinkled and damp from Henri's mouth, one corner torn where the dog had held it in its determined little jaws.

"Oh, of course," he responded, a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. He looked around for a pen, realised he didn't have one—why would he, standing there in damp shorts with no pockets—and I pulled the biro from my pocket and handed it over.

He quickly scrawled his name on the paper—barely legible, the signature of someone whose mind was elsewhere, whose attention was on the boxes and the brother who was coming and whatever plans required this much tent—and handed both paper and pen back to me.

I took the manifest, noting the hurried signature, and then Luke was ushering me towards the door. Not rudely, exactly, but with a clear sense of needing me gone. A clear sense of having things to do, problems to solve, a life to get on with that didn't involve the delivery driver standing in his living room.

He shut the door almost immediately behind me, the click of the lock audible.

Left standing on the front porch, I gazed out once more over the adjacent vacant block.

The quiet felt even more pronounced now, after the chaos of the dogs and the boxes and Luke's overwhelmed expression. Holding the crumpled manifest with its tooth marks and its illegible signature, I couldn't help but reflect on the unexpected and peculiar nature of this delivery.

What an odd place, I mused, my mind still replaying the chaotic yet amusing scenes with the dogs and the unexpectedly lavish interior of the house. Each delivery brought a new story, a new slice of life—and this one was certainly no exception.

Bloke answers the door in damp shorts with two yappy dogs, lives in a house that probably costs half a million dollars, orders enough tent to house a small army, and then acts surprised when it all shows up. Like the boxes were someone else's idea, someone else's plan, someone else's problem to solve.

Takes all sorts, I thought, walking back to the truck.

I climbed back into the cab, tossing the manifest onto the passenger seat with the others. The paper was a mess now—Mrs Woolley's smiley face on one, Henri's tooth marks on another—barely readable, but the signatures were there and that's all that mattered. That's all Garry would care about.

As I turned the key in the ignition, I found myself thinking about that house.

About the perfect kitchen and the enormous TV and the boxes piled up like Luke Smith was preparing for something. About the styled perfection of the living room now buried under cardboard. About having enough money to order eight boxes of tent on a whim and have a house where you could stack them in your living room without it looking completely absurd.

About what it must be like to have that kind of life.

To have problems that were about too much tent, rather than not enough money. To live in a house where the heating worked and the taps didn't drip and nobody cried in the kitchen at five in the morning over secrets they'd kept for nineteen years.

And then, unbidden, the thought came: Would my father have a house like that?

Jamie Greyson.

A name without a face. A person who existed somewhere, living some kind of life. Did he have money? Did he live in a nice house in a quiet suburb where the neighbours waved and the lawns were mowed and the silence was something you chose rather than something that filled the spaces where love used to be?

Did he answer doors in damp gym shorts with dogs yapping at his feet? Did he order things he didn't need and look surprised when they arrived? Did he have stone benchtops and an eighty-inch television and a life that looked like a magazine?

I didn't know anything about him. Nothing except his name on a birth certificate. Nothing except the fact that he was alive, out there somewhere, existing without me.

The truck rumbled to life beneath me, and I reversed carefully back down the driveway, watching the house shrink in my mirrors.

Back to the main road. Back to whatever deliveries were left on the manifest.

Just another day. Just another job.

Except nothing felt like "just another" anything anymore.

Not since five-thirty this morning. Not since the kitchen and the envelope and the seventeen letters that had rewritten everything.

The houses slid past the windows, all their neat lawns and expensive facades, all their secrets behind closed doors. Everyone had secrets. Everyone had things they didn't talk about, didn't show to delivery drivers, didn't let peek out from behind their carefully maintained exteriors.

The only difference was that some people's secrets were buried under money and success and houses that cost half a million dollars.

And some people's secrets were buried under brown carpet and fluorescent lights and nineteen years of lies.