For Curly

My sister had left the key in the letterbox, so I let myself in, into what remained of my mother's life.

- Greg Dixon

She had died the week before. It had been sudden. Just eight days after moving into a rest home, she had fallen in the night and hit her head. She had died alone on a bathroom floor in a place she barely knew.

She had not wanted to leave her little terraced home near Auckland's Remuera golf course, the place she knew best. But there had been no choice.

She had bought her plain, two-storey townhouse after the divorce. It was close to the shops in a part of Auckland she knew and, more importantly, was not too far from her bridge club. Though she never entertained visitors, the grandkids were always welcomed in with treats and she had made sort-of friends with the woman next door.

I'm not sure if she ever loved the place but it was hers. And that was important. It was her freehold retreat, somewhere she could try to rebuild her life after the betrayal. For a while she seemed to succeed in beating back some of her unhappiness.