I lean down and pick a spent sparkler out of the dust and debris on the floor. Though tired and unwell, I find myself compelled to repay him for holding things together while I’m gone. To support him after everything he’s been through here. I am fueled by rage for the injustice he’s endured, appalled by the lynch mob mentality of this place.

He says I don’t have to do this, but what other choice do I have? I am no stranger to exile. He didn’t cope when he tried to do it himself. All I know is I can’t be at peace unless I clean and order this place.

Among his possessions, I find remnants of his former life. A dust-encrusted black-and-white photo of him lovingly embracing his former partner and their son. A letter of adoration from his youngest daughter. The charred remains of a painting by his eldest, a family silhouette of children and parents frolicking on the beach. As I clean, I wonder: am I helping to clean the stains of the past or desecrating a shrine.

He worked tirelessly for them for many years, often sixteen hours a day, foregoing his own pursuits and opportunities. I haven’t known him long. But anyone can see he is the kind of man who would give you the shirt off his back. Reflecting on my own childhood, it grieves me that they wholly rejected such a loving father and provider.

I stop to look at the clock, remembering it’s a 2-hour drive to the airport. I encouraged him to come. He thinks it’s to ‘be a man’ and stand up to those who would condemn him. In reality, it’s to show him how much he is valued by those who know and love him. He’s happy to see me when I arrive, yet, as we near the town, I feel his body tensing. The smile that once lit his whole face has vanished, and I know his heart is racing.

We need supplies, and I tell him he doesn’t have to come, but he insists. I suggest the corner store. We park the car to take the shortcut along the beach.

It is unnerving to realise that the life you know can change so dramatically, sometimes without warning. One day, you’re a business owner, family man and much-loved community member; the next, it’s all gone.

Our beachside walk is hushed. No crashing waves here, only the heavy air, thick with salt, and the soft lap of water on sand. I give him space, but I can feel his anxiety like a weight in the air between us. On the road, a few cars pass, their drivers’ faces carefully neutral. His shoulders rise higher, and his jaw clenches so tightly it pops at the hinge.

I’m about to suggest we turn back when a rusty old Holden Ute slows beside us. An older woman with warm, weathered eyes leans out. “Hey there,” she calls calmly. “Glad to see you about. Got a fresh batch of bread in the shop, save you the trip to town.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just gives a quick, understanding nod and drives off.

This simple gesture allows the tension in his body to release a little. It’s not a grand welcome, not a full vindication, but it’s a tiny crack in the wall. The rage that had been fueling me fades into a different kind of strength—a quiet, fierce resolve.

“See?” I say as we get back to the car. He looks at me, and though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Weary, we finally step through the door, our arms full of supplies. A cool breeze moves through the open door, offering a fleeting reprieve from the oppressive heat. The house, relieved of its artifacts, is desolate and no longer home. We share a silent knowing now…

Emptiness has its solace when there’s nothing left to take.