Thirty-Nine
Dad’s there when we get home, parked in front of the telly with a Boags stubbie in one hand, the other plunged into a bag of his favourite Kettle chips. The hand is not moving. He’s too transfixed. “Come on, mate!” He mutters. “Come on … come on … come on … Yes!”
Mum appears at my side. “He’s going to give himself a heart attack,” she says quietly.
“I swear I don’t know why he watches it when it stresses him out so much.”
Mum’s eyes drift up to my hair. I self-consciously raise a hand to it. “I know,” I say. “Jed made me. I’ll dye it back.”
“No!” Mum says quickly. “Don’t do that, Connie. Please. I like it!”
I’m confused. “You always said you wished I’d just leave my hair the way it was.”
Mum sighs. “When you were younger, maybe. When you were still my baby and I didn’t w
