I peered over the side of my parent’s ornate staircase, growling in frustration as I looked down at my family’s pile of packed luggage. The parents themselves stood patiently by the door; well, I say patiently, but…
‘Christine,’ my father called, bruskly. ‘We really must be leaving, child.’
Child, I shivered. He put on a brave face, only occasionally checking his watch and tapping his foot whenever his attention strayed… but he was furious.
‘I know, Dad,’ I called back, frustrated myself. ‘But I can’t find it anywhere!’
‘What are you looking for, honey?’ my mother called up, ever the calm presence.
‘My jumper!’ I yelled from my room, wardrobe thoroughly torn apart. ‘I can’t find it!’
‘We’re just going to have to leave without it,’ my father said, ostensibly to my mother, but loud enough for me to hear it.
I groaned in anguish, hands clasped together at my side, ready to give up. Ignoring my instinct to slam my door shut (I’d learned my lesson the hard way, one visit from a residential glazing expert at a time), I instead calmly bottled up my feelings and picked up my too-light bag.
‘Finally,’ my brother said, looking up from his handheld device just long enough to roll his eyes at me. ‘Can we go now?’
‘I’m just worried we’re going to miss our flight to Melbourne, sweetie,’ my father explained, a purposeful grin on his face for me as I came down the stairs.
I held his gaze as I rebelliously slid down the glass balustrade. ‘Melbourne is a waste of time, anyway,’ I grumbled as I reached the bottom. ‘Everyone knows Sydney is better.’
‘Well, I’ll let the family know at the wake that you wish your great-aunt had died 900 kilometres east,’ my dad said, with some good humour. He took my bag from me, wheeling his own suitcase towards the door and the waiting car boot behind it.
‘It’ll be fun,’ my mum said, rubbing my back with a smile. ‘You’ll love Melbourne. Just think of all the glass staircases!’