I glanced over my shoulder as the street I’d grown up on disappeared from sight, obscured first by a rolling hill (that I’d broken my arm skateboarding down when I was eight) and then by the local milk bar (where I’d ritualistically stolen hundreds of lollies, well into my teens). I let out a deep, mournful sigh, and turned back around.
It wasn’t like I was never going to be back, I told myself as my wife squeezed my hand. I was certain my mother would insist on Christmases being there every year – she hated travelling for a meal. The thought brought a chuckle out of me, picturing her muttering to herself, ringing my doorbell, turkey safely ensconced under one arm.
‘I don’t know why you’re moving so far away, is all,’ she’d grumbled as we’d been packing the last of our things into the truck.
‘Mentone is the next suburb over!’ I protested, pointing in a general Mentone-direction. My wife nudged my arm so it was actually pointing the correct way, and went back to stacking boxes.
‘Bah,’ my mother batted the thought away. ‘Why did you have to listen to that conveyancing firm near Mentone? What’s wrong with the conveyancing firms we have right here? Close to your mother!’
I rolled my eyes, but left the question unanswered. In truth, we’d been looking to live even further away, but Mentone had been the best we could afford. Well, that or Europe.
We seriously considered Europe.
‘Trust me, Agatha,’ my wife smiled sweetly. ‘You’ll hardly even notice we’re gone. James will be around every weekend to mow your lawns, at the very least.’
‘I will?’ I frowned, and she elbowed me in the stomach.
My mum softened slightly, the fists pressed into her hips softening into open palms. ‘I suppose so,’ she sighed. ‘But don’t let those conveyancing lawyers keep you away from me for too long!’
‘Why would they—’ I began, before my wife elbowed me again.
‘Of course not!’ she beamed, stepping forward to wrap my mother in a begrudging hug.
I sighed deeply, and looked out at the already-overgrown lawn.