The Parasite Inside My Brain

The other day, I was talking to my dear friend ChatGPT about the weird things animals do. Take the wood frog Lithobates sylvaticus which is found across North America, for example — in winter, it can survive being frozen, with up to 65% of the water in its body turning to ice. Its heart stops beating, its breathing ceases, and it becomes essentially lifeless. Yet it produces glucose and urea in massive amounts, which act like natural antifreeze to protect its cells and organs from ice damage. Come spring, it thaws out, the heart restarts, and within a day it's back to hopping around as if nothing ever happened.

And then there are real moths known as lachryphagous moths that survive by drinking the tears of birds. Found mostly in tropical rainforests like the Amazon, Madagascar, and Southeast Asia, these moths have evolved long, straw-like proboscises with tiny hooks that allow them to gently pierce the tear ducts of sleeping birds. While the bird rests, the moth quietly sips the salty fluid, drawing out sodium and other essential nutrients. It’s a behaviour called kleptopharmacophagy — the stealing of chemical compounds from another animal. Some species go even further, feeding on sweat, pus, blood, and dung, making them nature’s most bizarre mineral scavengers. The idea of a moth delicately harvesting tears in the moonlight — not to hurt, but to nourish — is both unsettling and strangely poetic.

A frog and a moth are two animals you could mistake for ordinary, rank-and-file creatures going about their business — caught in the cycle of survival and reproduction. But you would be wrong. The wood frog and lachryphagous moths are reminders that nature can catch us off guard. It can make us look like fools who didn’t realise the extraordinary was living amongst us all along. Magical things are happening, and we didn’t even realise.

After ChatGPT and I discussed a number of animals that honestly do the most amazing things, we came to a fungus that truly caught my attention.

Deep in the rainforests, a parasitic fungus called Ophiocordyceps unilateralis turns unsuspecting ants into mindless zombies. After landing on a carpenter ant, the fungus penetrates its exoskeleton and spreads through its body, leaving the brain curiously intact while taking control of its muscles and nervous system. Under the fungus’s command, the ant climbs to a precise height — around 25 centimetres — and clamps its mandibles onto a leaf or twig in a final, fatal grip. There, it dies. Days later, a long fungal stalk erupts from the back of its head, releasing spores into the forest to begin the cycle again. The fungus even manipulates the ant’s internal clock, ensuring it climbs at exactly the right time of day for optimal fungal growth. This terrifyingly elegant life cycle is real, not science fiction — though it has inspired stories like The Last of Us. In truth, nature wrote the original — and far more chilling — zombie tale.

I asked ChatGPT to tell me more stories about mind-controlling fungi, viruses, or parasites — and that took us to rabies. Rabies is a deadly viral disease that affects the central nervous system, causing inflammation of the brain and, if left untreated, almost certain death. It’s most often transmitted through the bite or saliva of an infected animal — typically dogs, bats, or wild carnivores. From the wound, the virus travels along the nerves to the brain, where it begins its grim work. Once it reaches the brain, symptoms emerge: anxiety, agitation, confusion, hallucinations, hydrophobia - which is a fear of water, and violent aggression. It’s one of the few viruses known to directly alter behaviour in a way that increases its own spread — by making the host more likely to bite.

In its final stages, rabies turns the body into a haunted machine, driven by terror, rage, and confusion until death inevitably follows. Though entirely preventable with prompt vaccination after exposure, once symptoms appear, rabies is almost always fatal — a horrifying reminder of the fragile boundary between sanity and viral possession. I find this one especially spooky. Spooky in the way the infected person develops a very specific fear of water and a compulsion to bite — as if possessed. I remember thinking this then, and I’m thinking it again now: I can’t believe more people don’t talk about rabies not just as a dreadful virus, but as something that feels... designed. So precise, so cruel, so efficient — it’s almost as if it were built by some alien creator god.

I asked for more stories, and ChatGPT told me about a remarkable parasite that manipulates ants: the lancet liver fluke, Dicrocoelium dendriticum. Its life cycle involves three hosts — a snail, an ant, and a grazing mammal such as a cow, sheep, or deer. It begins in the gut of a land snail, which expels the parasite in mucus-covered slime balls. An unsuspecting ant eats one of these slime balls, and while most of the flukes settle harmlessly in the ant’s abdomen, one migrates to the brain. This single fluke takes control, compelling the ant to climb to the tip of a blade of grass at dusk and clamp on with its mandibles, placing itself in the perfect position to be eaten by a grazing animal.

If the ant survives the night, it releases its grip and resumes normal behaviour during the day — only to repeat the climb again the following evening. Once the ant is finally consumed, the fluke travels to the liver of the mammal, where it matures and lays eggs to begin its eerie, precise cycle anew. It's a chilling example of nature’s evolutionary cunning — a parasite with a schedule, a strategy, and an unsettling sense of purpose.

It was in the final tale of mind control that my life — and the world around me — suddenly made sense. Toxoplasma gondii is a microscopic parasite with an extraordinary talent for manipulation. It can infect almost any warm-blooded animal, but it can only reproduce sexually inside the intestines of a cat. To complete its life cycle, toxo often infects rodents — and once it does, it alters their brain chemistry, removing their natural fear of cats and, in some cases, even making them attracted to the scent of feline urine. This suicidal boldness increases the chances the rodent will be eaten, delivering the parasite back to its true host.

In humans, Toxoplasma gondii can lie dormant in brain tissue for decades, forming cysts and subtly influencing behaviour. Research has found statistically significant links between toxo infection and the development of psychiatric disorders, including schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, and bipolar disorder. Some studies suggest it may contribute to increased risk-taking, mood disturbances, and altered dopamine regulation — the very neurotransmitter pathways implicated in psychosis. The parasite, often contracted through undercooked meat, contaminated water, or exposure to cat faeces, is estimated to be present in one-third of the world’s population.

I’ve outlined a little bit about Toxoplasma gondii above so you can get an idea of what I’m talking about — but let me spell it out the way I understand it. This cat-loving parasite infects warm-blooded animals and manipulates their brains to do two very specific things: first, to love cats, and second, to lose all fear of them. There are plenty of sorts of cats — lions, tigers, panthers, leopards, jaguars, even pumas, which I was talking about the other day.

Since I found out about this parasite, I’ve done a fair bit of research, and one of the key features of its effect is that it emboldens its host. Scientists say infected rats become sexually attracted to cat urine. Some researchers even suggest that infected hosts might become sexually attracted to predators in general. But above all, it makes you love cats. Another effect they’ve noted is slower reaction times, which may be why people with toxo are statistically more likely to be involved in car accidents.

Honestly, this is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of — and yet it makes perfect sense to me. I am 100% certain I’m infected, or if I’m not now, I absolutely have been in the past.

Let me tell you something literally unbelievable that happened the day I discovered toxo. I was so excited I woke Mum up at around 6:00am just to tell her about it. I explained the whole life cycle — the cats, the mind control, the love and the danger. That night, we were watching Channel 7 News, and a story came on about Toxoplasma gondii. To put this into perspective: I had never heard of it before that day. I had been researching it all afternoon, I’d told Mum about it that morning, and then there it was — on the news.

You might read this and think I’m making it up, or that I’m exaggerating, but I swear to you it’s true. And I’ve come to believe that things like that — those strange little coincidences — are the universe winking at you. Letting you know you're on the right track.

I am 100% certain I’m infected. I am a host. I’ve either got this parasite now, or it’s been in my system — and I’ve been affected in a way that most people aren’t. Apparently, around a third of the population is infected, and not everyone experiences devastating consequences. But I have. I’ll tell you one thing: I love cats. I’ve always had a strange connection to them, and it’s only now that it all makes sense to me. I love seeing cats out at night. I know they’re supposed to be kept indoors to protect wildlife, but I can’t help it — when I’m driving home and I see a cat cross the road or padding along the footpath, something stirs in me. I always wonder what kind of mischief they’ve been up to.

I’ve even had debates with people who think cats should be culled because they kill native wildlife. But to me, the response is simple: why is a cat’s life worth less than a native bird’s? Just because it was introduced? If we took that approach to its logical end, then all of us — anyone descended from cultures other than our First Nations people — would not be welcome here either. The logic collapses. The prejudice is laid bare. And I find myself, again and again, siding with the cat.

But you know what? I’ve also been sexually attracted to a predator. The Judge. He himself was not a predator — but he reminded me so much of a man who exposed himself to me when I was a child that I became overwhelmingly attracted to him. It was so far out of character, it shook me. 

There are other things that link me to toxo, but honestly, I know I have it. It’s now 3:17am on Thursday, 31 July, and later this afternoon — at 3:00pm — I have a doctor’s appointment to get a form so I can be tested. I should have the results back by early next week.

Sometimes I think about the early humans — were they infected too? Were they drawn to the scent of lion or tiger urine? Emboldened enough to get too close? To become prey? It makes you wonder how many behaviours across time have been shaped by this microscopic force.

This parasite is almost unbelievable. You hear about rabies and the fungus that controls ants — and those are disturbing enough — but this? This shapes desire, risk, personality. It plays with the deepest wiring of who we are. And once you know that, you can’t unknow it.

I think I got this parasite when I was in Tanzania back in the 2000s. You can contract it through contaminated water, and while I always drank bottled water, there are so many other ways it could have slipped in — showering, eating food washed in local water, a single unguarded moment. When I get the test results back, I’m going to map out my life, and then I’m going to devote myself to the study of it. I need to know more. I want to explore and present serious arguments about sexual attraction to predators, the love of cats, the rewiring of fear and desire.

Once I know for certain that I currently host, or have hosted Toxoplasma gondii, I’ll enrol in a Bachelor of Science through UNE online. Then I’m going to enrol at TAFE SA for 2026 and start with a Certificate IV in Laboratory Techniques, which runs for nine months, and from there I’ll move on to the Diploma of Laboratory Technology. I’ll absolutely continue with my Papua New Guinea colonisation and blackbirding projects — afterward — while working in a lab.

We Are The Bad Guys

I think we live in a profoundly unfair world. The structure of Western civilisation seems designed to protect and privilege one type of person: the able-bodied, mentally competent, white male. Everyone else is treated as an afterthought. For a while, I wondered if this bias stemmed from the fact that Yahweh — the God of the First Testament — and Jesus — the central figure of the Second — are often imagined as white men. But of course, they weren’t. They were both Jewish men, and I’m certain they didn’t fit the mould that the Romans had in mind for power or rulership at the time.

Bedford Group — a major South Australian disability support provider — announced on Thursday, July 24, 2025, that it expected to enter voluntary administration in the coming days. The administration process was set to begin today, Sunday, July 27. In response, the state government has provided a $15 million lifeline, which Premier Peter Malinauskas says should keep the organisation afloat for at least a few weeks and buy some time.

I’ve always believed that the idea behind Bedford was a good one. They employ people with disability in industries like packaging, furniture manufacturing, catering and hospitality, laundry, cleaning, recycling, landscaping, and timber processing.

I was aware that employees at Bedford weren’t paid a full wage — and I’ve always thought that was unfair — but it wasn’t until this administration crisis that I started really looking into it. And to put it simply: it is an outrage.

Bedford Group is an ADE — an Australian Disability Enterprise. According to Inclusion Australia, there are approximately 600 ADEs across the country, employing over 20,000 people with disability.

ADEs are technically not-for-profit organisations, which means they don’t distribute profits to shareholders — but that doesn’t mean they aren’t making money. Many ADEs run large-scale commercial operations. They charge full commercial rates for their services, and in some cases, generate millions of dollars in revenue. While the profits are reinvested into the organisation, the core issue remains: the workers — the people with disability doing the actual labour — are often paid just a few dollars an hour under the Supported Wage System. So even though the ADEs are not-for-profit on paper, they are still profiting off the underpayment of disabled workers. 

As an ADE, Bedford is allowed to pay its disabled workers under the Supported Wage System (SWS). This means their wage is calculated based on their assessed productivity compared to a non-disabled worker. So, if someone is assessed at 50% productivity, they may only receive 50% of the standard rate — sometimes just $2 to $4 an hour.

When the Bedford administration crisis was announced, journalists rushed to tell human-interest stories about the 1,400 workers who might lose their jobs. Much of the coverage focused on the tragedy of the potential job losses. But let’s be clear: these aren’t people losing jobs that support a household or cover rent. These are people losing their jobs and their lunch money.

Don’t get me wrong — I understand that a place like Bedford offers a social environment for people with disability that may not exist elsewhere. And when the Premier announced a potential $15 million lifeline, he said he wanted to preserve the “dignity that work provides.”

There is no dignity in being paid $3 an hour while your labour is used to turn a commercial profit. There is no dignity in being told — structurally, economically, legally — that your time is worth less than someone else’s. That is not support. That is injustice.

When I started reading more about this, my chest tightened, my heart raced. My first instinct was to write to all 600 ADEs, asking how they operate and what they believe about paying minimum wage. I wanted to write to every member of Federal Parliament — every MP and senator — and ask what they think of this quiet exploitation happening in plain sight. I wanted to photocopy their replies, display them, distribute them, and make noise.

But then I read an article in The Advertiser. A parent of one of the Bedford workers said he would pay Bedford just so his daughter could have the chance to work there. It made me pause — and for a moment, I saw things from their perspective.

I know the families of these workers probably don’t want someone like me kicking and screaming about this. But still — it’s not right. It is so unfair. We give them scraps and call it inclusion. We call it “support,” but it comes at the cost of dignity, equality, and self-respect.

So, for now, I’m sitting with this. And I’m quietly sticking my middle finger up at all the able-bodied, mentally competent, white men who cruise through life while the rest of us are constantly forced to compromise our own worth.

Why do we, as a society, still think people with disability should earn less — simply for existing differently?

26 January 1788 marks the date when the First Fleet, under Captain Arthur Phillip, raised the British flag at Sydney Cove and established a penal colony — beginning the British invasion and settler colonisation of this continent. Our British ancestors invaded and colonised Australia, which is what I’ve always associated with the word colonisation in an Australian context. But it turns out that we, as a separate nation — Australia as it stands today — have also been colonisers in our own right.

Australia administered Papua New Guinea for decades — first after World War I as part of a colonial arrangement, then under a United Nations trusteeship. After seizing German New Guinea in 1914 and taking over British Papua in 1906, Australia ruled the territory until PNG gained independence in 1975. During this time, resources were extracted, Indigenous governance was suppressed, and Papuans were forced into harsh labour with minimal rights or pay. Traditional cultures, languages, and spiritual practices were actively discouraged. Australia presented itself as a benevolent overseer, but its rule was deeply paternalistic and racist — treating Papua New Guineans as inferior and delaying self-determination under the excuse that they were not “ready.”

Australia also jointly administered Nauru with Britain and New Zealand after World War I, under a League of Nations mandate. The phosphate mining industry — led by Australia — devastated the island, stripping it bare and leaving much of it uninhabitable. This remains one of the clearest examples of resource colonialism: an entire landscape consumed for foreign profit, with little regard for the people who lived there or the long-term consequences of environmental destruction.

Back to Papua New Guinea. Even after World War II, when it became strategically valuable to Australia, development continued to serve Australian interests, not local communities. Health services were segregated, Indigenous voices were silenced, and the Australian administration deliberately delayed independence, which only came in 1975. Today, PNG remains economically dependent on Australian aid, which is often used as a tool of influence — a form of modern neo-colonialism. Australia has never formally acknowledged or apologised for its colonial rule, and its role in Papua New Guinea remains largely absent from Australian public memory. The scars of colonisation remain — visible in land loss, poverty, disrupted cultural identity, and the ongoing struggle for true sovereignty.

I haven’t even begun my deeper research into Australia’s colonial history in PNG, but something I’ve already come across is the role of the kiaps — Australia’s colonial patrol officers. These men were sent deep into Papua New Guinea’s highlands and villages with rifles, notebooks, and unchecked power. Acting as judge, police, tax collector, and bureaucrat all at once, they disrupted traditional authority and imposed a foreign system of rule. With little understanding of the cultures they dominated, they enforced Australian law in places that had governed themselves for millennia. Some may have come with good intentions, but the system itself was rooted in control, not care — a blunt instrument of colonisation wrapped in khaki.

Though often romanticised as adventurous bushmen, many kiaps ruled through fear. Their patrols were backed by armed police, and resistance was met with brutal force — arrests without trial, public floggings, and in some cases, killings. Entire villages were punished for the actions of one person. People were imprisoned for speaking out, or simply for failing to obey foreign orders they did not understand. The presence of the kiap was not just administrative — it was a constant threat, a walking reminder that violence stood behind the Australian flag. Where diplomacy failed, rifles spoke.

I don’t want to pretend I know more about the colonisation of PNG than I’ve just said. I have a lot of research to do simply because I want to know more.

Something else I recently discovered about the history of Australia: blackbirding.

Blackbirding was a form of slave labour that saw over 60,000 Pacific Islanders taken, tricked, or kidnapped from places like Vanuatu and the Solomon Islands to work in the sugarcane fields of Queensland. From the 1860s to the early 1900s, these men and boys — and sometimes women — were coerced through lies or outright force, shipped across dangerous seas, and made to labour in brutal conditions. Many never returned home. Though Australia never officially called it slavery, the system was built on the same foundation: exploitation, racial violence, and profit. The legacy of blackbirding still lingers, yet remains largely absent from Australian classrooms and national memory.

After decades of exploiting Pacific Islander labour, Australia turned around and expelled many of these same people under the newly formed White Australia Policy. In 1901, the Pacific Island Labourers Act was passed — just months after Federation — with the explicit aim of deporting thousands of Islanders who had been brought to Queensland, often against their will. Despite their years of backbreaking work and deep roots in local communities, they were now labelled as “undesirable” and forcibly removed to places they hadn’t seen since childhood — or had never known at all. It was a final betrayal: to use them as cheap labour, then discard them in the name of racial purity. Some were allowed to stay, and their descendants form the Australian South Sea Islander community today — a group still fighting for full recognition and justice.

I haven’t read enough yet about the colonisation of PNG or blackbirding to form an educated opinion. But the truth is — I’m not educated. I never could or would put an academic spin on it. All I know is: we are the bad guys. I have no words to express the shame and disgust I feel about these things — but also the disbelief that we don’t talk about them. We haven’t apologised or paid reparations to either parties, and yet we swan around chucking a shrimp on the barbie while we sit around with our mates watching AFL or AFLW like nothing ever happened. We are the bad guys.

I have just found two things —the colonisation of Papua New Guinea and blackbirding — that have gripped something deep inside me. I want to look into them further, and find a way to share what I learn with others, who I’m sure don’t know either.

The Pigeon Story

A number of years ago — I can’t quite put a date on it — I couldn’t sleep one night. It was around 3:00am, so I decided to go for a drive to clear my head and hopefully make myself tired. I drove around our area, but then I went out north a little and looped around OG Road. It was dark, cold, and wintry, and there were no other cars on the road.

As I was driving, I saw a pigeon in the middle of the road and slowed down. You know when you think if you just keep driving, they’ll fly off at the last minute? I think I had that mentality. But somehow… I hit it.

I was absolutely mortified.

I kept driving because I had to — all of a sudden there were a few other cars around — but then I looped back around to the same section of OG Road where I’d hit the poor pigeon. I couldn’t see it on the road, so I hadn’t run right over it. Then I looked to the left and saw it, puffed up and sitting in the gutter.

I pulled over and walked towards it. It started slowly walking away from me, but I could tell it was badly injured. I didn’t know what to do — I needed to help it, but I didn’t know how.

The first thing I did was take off my windcheater and try to throw it over the pigeon so I could scoop it up and put it in the back of my car. But it kept walking away — and from my end, it really freaked me out. It reminded me of when I used to go fishing with my dad as a kid. The way the fish would flap around always made me jump.

We danced a bit of a dance for a while. It kept walking quickly away, making it hard to catch. I decided I needed a box.

So I called Nanny.

It was 3:00 am and she wasn’t overly thrilled to hear from me. I told her I’d hit a pigeon and asked if I could come over to get a cardboard box. She got quite angry at me for driving around at that time of night, but she agreed to find one.

I went over to pick it up. She was almost in tears, begging me not to go back out. “It’s the middle of the night,” she said. “You never know who’s going to be around.” I told her I’d be quick, and that I’d be okay. Eventually, she let me go.

I went back to OG Road. My plan was to now throw the box over the pigeon’s head and catch it that way. It was clearly injured, but it had just enough steam in it to run away from me every time I approached. By this stage, we’d moved between two front yards on OG Road. Some cars were driving past — no one stopped, which I’m actually glad about. I’m not sure how I would have reacted.

I chased that pigeon around for a while until it ran under a parked car in someone’s driveway. That’s when I realised I needed help. I wasn’t keeping time, but it must have been at least 4:00 am by now.

I drove home and woke Mum up.

I told her I’d hit a “bird” on OG Road and needed her help to pick it up and take it to the vet. She swore a bit and was hesitant, but finally agreed. As she was getting dressed, I said, “Thank you so much for coming with me — I don’t want the pigeon to die.”

With those words, Mum turned around and gave me a death stare. She raised her voice and said, “A pigeon?! You got me out of bed at 4:00 am for a fucking pigeon?!”

I found her reaction fascinating. What if I’d said it was a parrot? Or an owl? Or a kookaburra? Would she have been more willing to help a more exotic bird?

I was a little disappointed. A life is a life — they’re all the same to me. But the irony of this story is that pigeons are incredibly special.

How about how they used to deliver messages in times of war? How about how they can find their way home from vast distances?

They’re evidence of intelligent design. I loved them then, and I love them now. I’ve even thought about joining a pigeon club — although in some circles they’re considered cruel.

Anyway, Mum and I headed back to OG Road. We stood in the front yard of the house where the pigeon had hidden under a car. It was so funny — my mother is a bit like Audrey Hepburn. Glamorous, a little bit posh, very professional. And there she was, crouched in a stranger’s front yard at the crack of dawn, trying to lure a pigeon out from under a car.

We realised the only way to get it out was to ask the owner to gently move their car. Since it was still very early, we left and came back at around 7:00 am. I knocked on the door of the apartment. A young Asian woman answered. I told her what had happened, and she looked at me like, “What the actual fuck?” But she moved the car, and said she had to catch a bus to uni.

By this stage, the beautiful little pigeon wasn’t looking too well. Mum was actually the one who put a towel around it, picked it up, and placed it gently in the box.

We then drove it to a vet that was open on Magill Road. I told the receptionist that in the box was a pigeon I’d accidentally hit on OG Road. She took the box away into another room. When she came back, I asked, “The pigeon’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

She gave me a stern look and said, “No. It’s not.”

Mum dragged me away and we went home. I never called the vet to check what happened to my little feathered friend. I expect they put it down. Or it died. I felt so bad for hitting it — I honestly thought it would just fly away.

But the experience taught me something. With animals — as with people — some lives are seen as worth more than others. And pigeons, are right at the bottom of the barrel.

I told my brother what had happened, and he said, “What the fuck did you go to all that trouble for a sky rat?”

To my brother — and to my mother — it’s easy to dismiss a bird like a pigeon as a pest, or an incubator of disease. But they’re glorious. As are all birds.

And I celebrate the fact that people look down on them. Because what they don’t realise is — pigeons might be the most magnificent of them all.

Back in 2021, I became very interested in physics and astronomy. I was doing a course called the UPP at Adelaide Uni, which I’d enrolled in specifically to introduce myself to the sciences, an area I had no background in. Around the same time, I started hanging out at the Planetarium. I went to their public sessions as well as the school holiday ones.

That’s where I became close with one of the astronomers there — Mariah.

Mariah is a force of nature. She turned 50 last year and is hands down the smartest person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t have a formal degree, but she knows everything about astronomy and astrophysics and can name every star in the night sky. We started catching up outside the Planetarium and became good friends.

Mariah also had a friend she knew through astronomy circles named Neil. He was around 78 when I first met him and would be about 82 now. I’ve always believed friendships come in all shapes and sizes — age, gender, religion — none of it matters to me. Those differences should be celebrated when you're choosing who to share your life with.

But there was something a little off about Neil.

The three of us formed a bit of a friendship group, and some nights after Mariah’s sessions, we’d go back to Neil’s house and sit by the fire in the shed out the back. Neil told me that about five years earlier, his wife of nearly 50 years had just up and left. He talks a lot. Like, a lot — to the point where I actually think it’s rude. He’ll talk for an hour straight without pause or allowing anyone to respond or ask questions. My initial thought was, maybe his wife just got sick of it — literally woke up one morning and said, "I will not put up with this for one second longer."

But then I got to know him more. And my suspicions shifted.

One night, after sitting around the fire with Mariah at Neil’s place, she gave me a lift home. As we were leaving, Neil walked us to the car. We always hugged goodbye — there was usually love all around — but that night, after hugging Mariah, he hugged me and put his hand right on my bum and took a big grope. I could not believe it.

Maybe some people think a man of that age wouldn’t do something like that — but I was taken aback. Mariah adores Neil, reveres him even, so I decided not to tell her. I let it slide.

But the next time I saw him, he did it again.

It was audacious. It was blatant. It was cunning. And it made me feel sick.

The more I saw him, the more sexual he became. Once when I hugged him, he thrust his lower half into me. He’d hug me in a way that squished my breasts together and then press his whole body up against mine. It was revolting.

I used to take my friend Luna — who is currently in court for attempted murder — along with Neil and other astronomy friends to NightLab at the museum, an after-hours science party they sometimes hold on Friday nights. One night I was dressed up as a penguin, and the beak of the costume was flopping over my face. I asked Neil how I could get it to stay up, and he said, “I’m sure you could find a way to stiffen it up.” 

Below you can see a photo of me in the penguin costume.

He made me feel so uncomfortable. He is, without a doubt, a sex pest.

That night, when I said goodbye, I felt obligated to hug him. A brief hug — but even then, he held my back firmly against his chest so he could feel my boobs. That was the moment I decided I’d had enough.

I started to distance myself. I stopped going to Mariah’s classes if I knew he’d be there. I didn’t go around to his house anymore. Gradually, I saw Mariah less and less.

One day, Luna and I were sitting out the front of Mariah’s house, waiting for her to get home. We were in my car, chatting. Luna said something like, “I love you and Mariah,” and I replied, “What about Neil — do you love him too?”

Luna paused. “I don’t know… what do you think of him?”

Before I could answer, they said, “I know what you’re going to say.”

Then they told me. He’d groped them too. He grabbed their bum when he hugged them. He lifted them up at the museum in a creepy way — something I actually saw and didn’t say anything about at the time. That’s on me. I should have spoken up. Luna is a very petite, younger, gender-diverse person, and it was my responsibility to look out for them.

They called Neil a predator.

They asked if I’d ever tell Mariah, and I said no. Because Mariah loves him. And:

a) I didn’t want to ruin Neil for her.
b) She might not believe me — and I’d be the one to lose a friend.

I haven’t said anything. Mariah has asked me a few times if Neil has done something to offend me, and I’ve always said no. But it fractured our friendship. We went from seeing each other constantly to hardly ever — all because of the risk of running into him and having to hug him.

I honestly believe Neil has sexually harassed or assaulted someone in the past. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are historical charges against him. Maybe that’s why his wife left.

I’m telling you all of this because, before I walked away from that little friendship group, I once told Mariah and Neil the pigeon story.

Neil responded with, “I expect you need to toughen up a bit.”

It’s funny, really — I should have toughened up and told him to fuck off. But all I could do was look at him and think, 'I don’t want one of you.' In that moment, I felt like I’d never want to be with a man again. 

Quiet Refusal

On Friday night, Rebecca and I had tickets to Universal Kingdom: The Next Era, part of the Illuminate Adelaide light festival. The show was set within the grounds of the Adelaide Zoo and had a dinosaur theme — right up my alley.

I told Rebecca to drive to my house so we could catch an Uber in together, but she insisted on driving. Big mistake.

We had 6:30pm tickets, but there was no way we were going to make it on time. We drove along the road behind the Botanic Gardens and the zoo — not a single park in sight. So we had to loop back through the city, and by the time we returned to the zoo, it was already 7:15pm.

We decided I’d jump out, go in and have a look around, and then catch an Uber home. I felt a bit bad that Rebecca had to miss out, but at least this way one of us could experience it. And honestly, it was kind of perfect that it was me — because I am a dinosaur lover.

As you enter the zoo, the first thing you see is a luminous sculpture made entirely of glowing dinosaur bones. It was stunning. You can see it in the photo below.

I thought that first piece might set the stage for a whole trail of magical light displays — and in some ways, it did. One of the next things I saw was a small house with dinosaur-themed projections on it, which you can see below. 

I wandered through the zoo for a while — there were lights scattered throughout. As I walked, I kept peeking into the animal enclosures, thinking: humans have done it again. Not only have we locked these creatures up to gawk at during the daytime, now we’re flooding their space with hundreds of night-time visitors, disturbing their slumber.

Eventually, I reached the far side of the zoo where a “raptor run” had been set up — a playful installation where a row of glowing velociraptors lights up and children have to race them. I couldn’t quite capture a good photo, but you can see my attempt below.

Then I arrived at the centrepiece of the entire exhibition — a towering, illuminated Triceratops sculpture. I’d seen this majestic creature in all the advertisements for the event, and it didn’t disappoint.

I’ve always loved Triceratops. There’s something noble and quietly powerful about them. If I ever come into serious money one day, I’d love to own a real Triceratops bone — not for show, just to marvel at.

You can see it below. 

The feature lights may have been few, but they were beautiful — carefully chosen rather than overwhelming. I had two highlights of the night, and the first was unexpected: the pop-up shop.

I knew I was in trouble the moment I peeked through the window and spotted rows of dinosaur soft toys and other irresistible treasures. Below, you can see a wall absolutely brimming with magnificent dinosaurs — every colour, shape, and size. It was a Jurassic temptation I couldn’t walk past.

But in the end, I restrained myself. I’m pretty much broke at the moment, so I capped it at around $80. I know that’s a lot for most people — and it is — but for me, in a dinosaur-themed gift shop, it showed remarkable self-control. If I had a bottomless bank account, the possibilities would have been endless.

I walked away with a cute little Triceratops plush, a “neon” dinosaur light — which was not real neon, just neon-style — two pens, and three notebooks. Money well spent, if you ask me!

My final highlight of the night falls perfectly into the strange, serendipitous rhythm of my life — I saw a puppet.

There was a T-Rex puppet roaming the zoo, roaring and stomping as children squealed and scattered. Now, I know what you might be thinking: That’s not a puppet, that’s just a person in a costume. But this is where things get interesting.

A puppet is an object — often resembling a creature or character — brought to life by a puppeteer. The magic lies in the illusion of life created through movement. A costume, on the other hand, transforms the performer into the character — there’s no separation between the body inside and the character portrayed.

So even though there was a human inside that T-Rex, what I witnessed wasn’t a costume performance. It was puppetry. The person inside wasn't being the T-Rex — they were animating it. The focus was on the creature, not the actor.

And that, to me, is the story of my life. I talk about something, and then it happens. I think of someone, and I run into them. I take an interest in something — and suddenly I’m face to face with it. I know it sounds a incredibly arrogant to suggest these things mean something… but still, it’s weird.

Below, you can see the T-Rex puppet in action.

I ended my night at the zoo in the most comforting way possible — with a large bowl of hot chips, absolutely smothered in tomato sauce. It was cold, I was tired, and it felt like the perfect reward for a long night of wandering, wondering, and wild prehistoric creatures. You can see them below in all their greasy, glorious splendour.

On the Uber ride home, I found myself thinking about something unexpected — I’d seen my old boyfriend Luke at the zoo. We didn’t speak. We just made eye contact, I smiled briefly, then looked away. He was with his wife or partner, and I think I saw two young children. They looked quite little, which made me wonder if his partner is quite a bit younger than him — he’s older than me, and I would have assumed his kids would be older by now.

For a split second, I thought: That could’ve been me, walking through the zoo on a Friday night with Luke and two kids. And it could have been — he wanted that with me once. But I wanted something more.

And I still do.

I wish him all the luck and all the love in the world. It was nice to see him, in some ways. 

I’ve mentioned in this blog before that I’m having all the responses to my oath requests bound into a book, which I’ll be gifting to the Chief Justice of South Australia. 

It’s actually been surprisingly hard to find a bookbinder — not just in Adelaide, but anywhere in Australia. Eventually, I found someone in Melbourne who looks quite promising. We’ve been going back and forth by email, discussing all the particulars. The first thing I have to do is iron the letters to smooth out the creases. I actually went to The Good Guys the other day and bought a brand-new iron just for the job.

I also went back and forth on whether to use leather for the book cover. In the end, I decided to go with it — partly because I want the very best for the Chief Justice, and partly because for some reason I am more prone to accept the killing of animals for things like warmth in clothing or in this instance protecting fine art. Still, I won’t lie: I don't feel good about it. But I’ve made the decision and I’m going to stick with it.

I’m hoping the finished book will look like a work of art. It will have gold embossed lettering on the front, addressed to him, and from me. That meant I needed to double-check his correct formal title. So on Friday, I emailed his office, and someone — perhaps an associate — responded quickly: the correct title is “The Honourable Chief Justice” followed by his name. No postnominals.

The moment I saw that, my heart started racing. I felt that same thrill I once felt about the judge in Sydney. Had our Chief Justice deliberately omitted the SC — Senior Counsel — title he earned at the bar?

I thought back to everything I liked about him — including that moment he essentially told J.K. Rowling to fuck off — and I wondered if we were dealing with that kind of man. The kind who doesn’t care for airs and posturing. I had to know immediately.

So I emailed his associate again and asked: why no SC?

When I didn’t get a reply straight away, I couldn’t wait. I called the Law Society and asked whether judges have the option of using postnominals like SC or KC after their names. I told the woman on the phone that I was writing a book — which was,  a bit of a white lie. Well, more of a full-blown fabrication. But I really needed to know.

She took down my email and sent through some information. It turns out I’d misunderstood the absence of the SC — it’s normal. Judges don’t usually include it after appointment. She also sent me a copy of the Table of Precedence, which I didn’t ask for but appreciated anyway.

I have a bit of history with the Table of Precedence. I knew and know 21.c and 38 very well. Once, 21.c was told he had to apply to have the title “Honourable” officially placed in front of his name on a public sign. He refused to apply for a title. So they just gave it to him anyway.

That moment — his quiet refusal — is something someone like Luke, or any man really, cannot quite live up to.

This Is It

I find The Advertiser Online, or Adelaide Now, to be an extremely depressing online newspaper. I used to read the physical paper, but now I follow local news through their website. Mum has a subscription, and we entered the password into my computer once, and it saved it. We now have no idea what the password is, but the computer automatically fills it, and every time I successfully log in, I thank Lady Luck.

I find the newspaper, or website, or whatever you want to call it, depressing because every day they have a story about someone who is dying of cancer or has been struck down by some horrible disease. It is literally every day, and it makes me question the newsworthiness of these stories.

Yes, they are so sad, and in my heart I believe that everyone’s story has immeasurable value and worth. And in some ways, they are raising awareness. But on the other side of that is this: it feels like it's as if the news itself is not bad enough, we now have to read these horrible stories that remind us all it could happen to us at any time.

The other day I read an article about a 30-year-old woman named Paige Footner. She is a paramedic as well as a trained circus artist. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but apparently she is a Cyr wheel performer, and she’s the only one in South Australia. She’s performed at festivals around the world. She was on her way to the Edinburgh Fringe in August when she went for a routine tinnitus check, and they discovered a brain tumour.

I think at 30, some people would say things like, “There can’t be a God if He allows someone so young to get so sick like that.” However, it’s cruel and merciless situations like this that affirm my belief in the God of the first testament of the Bible — Yahweh. He is a sick, twisted, and nasty motherfucker, and it would take someone like that to inflict this kind of burden on someone like this creative and obviously caring young woman.

Anyway, like I said, I don’t like to read these stories — but this one really caught my attention.

Paige talked about how paramedics have a "front row seat to people's choices and consequences of those". Something she said really struck a chord with me:

"We see people who work really hard their whole life and plan to go on this big trip when they retire, or they never chase their dreams that they've always wanted to."

"Then it's too late and they die with regrets or they get their health taken away."

She talked about when she first found out about her diagnosis:

"My first reaction was that I'm going to die and I've never found love before."

She then went on to say:

"I've never had a boyfriend and I'm very brave in terms of doing circus tricks, but I never told the boy I liked that I liked him."

She finished by saying:

"So I was going to die without love, intimacy — what every little girl dreams of when they're younger."

She said she was trying to use the experience to inspire people to live their life "fiercely and intensely while they still can." She then said the following things:

• "Tell the boy you like that you like him"

• "Try that hobby"

• "Don't leave things unsaid, especially if somebody's had a positive impact on your life"

• "Chase those dreams"

• "Go on those trips"

The article didn’t say what the prognosis is. It did say that her friends have rallied around her and have raised some money through a raffle. They also set up a GoFundMe page. I donated $50 — I would have liked to have donated more, but I’m currently broke.

I found Paige to be an incredibly inspiring person. I’m just about to turn 44, so she is 14 years younger than me — and she had her whole life together. In the same employment for five years, in a caring first responder profession. She expressed herself creatively through the circus arts, and she obviously has a strong support network around her — people who are trying to share the burden of her horrible diagnosis.

It makes me think I really have wasted my precious time here on earth.

I remember I mentioned to you about a psychologist I once saw. I was telling her about the letter I wrote to the judge. I had a tear streaming down my face as I looked out the window, and it was raining. I also told that psychologist about my life — about the eight schools, the 70 jobs, the seven university false starts — and she just looked at me and said:

“You obviously could do whatever you want in life. So what is stopping you?”

I didn’t know how to answer when she asked me why I still cared about the letter I wrote to the judge. I also didn’t know how to answer when she asked me what was stopping me from achieving any sort of success in life.

I think I nailed it the other day when I said: it’s the idea that you can always try again. You can always go back to uni. You can always try another job, meet another man. But there has to come a time when you go — this is it.

I sit here on the cusp of my 44th birthday thinking: I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. But the thing is, not only am I grown up, I’m nearly a senior citizen.

I have made so many mistakes in my life. I can’t tell you. It has literally just been one mistake after the next. If I really sat down and thought about it, it would make me very depressed. But there is this longing for something. I don’t want to fill a void, prove a point, be famous or even recognised - but I have this primal urge to do something meaningful. 

But if I could have it my way, I would go the rest of my life completely under the radar. Write under a pseudonym. Create art anonymously. Really, I would like that.

In some ways, that’s what I liked about Sydney. It’s so big, and you’re really just a number — a statistic. No one knows you or cares about you. But in the end, I found that to be a little bit cruel. My dad actually paid my rent for me when I was in Sydney, and he told my mother he felt sorry for me there — because I was all alone.

Anyway, no one knows me here in Adelaide, but it’s still a small city, and there really is six degrees of separation with everything.

In relation to this article about Paige — it is very inspiring, in the sense that it has made me think I do need to live more passionately and fiercely. But I didn’t just wake up the next morning and jump out of bed and feel like the haze of mediocrity had lifted from my soul.

I think it’s going to be a slow process.

I don’t want a profession. I don’t want to be 85 years old in a nursing home, and an agency carer knocks on my door and sits down for a chat. If they then asked me what I did for a living, I’m just going to say I volunteered with a pretty cool organisation. It’s the only thing I’ve ever felt proud to be a part of, and I love it so much. I’m going to do it until the day I die.

It’s a shame I threatened to sue them, but ultimately, it goes to show how much it means to me and I’m not sorry I stood up for myself.

So I’m going to tell this carer that I volunteered and that I travelled the world. That’s all I really want. I’m not an adventurous traveller, but I do want to see so many places. And I’m going to sit down and think about how I can make my travel dreams come true.

When Paige said she was going to die without love, intimacy, what every little girl dreams of when they’re younger, I can relate to that.

I have never been in love with a man. A few men have told me that they loved me, and I’ve said it back — but I never really meant it, and I really don’t think they did either. The closest I came to feeling that overwhelming giddiness was with the judge in Sydney. But thinking about that now, the judge was good — but not really that good. So, I have never been in love.

When you’re young, you think it’s just going to come to you. Maybe you’re walking down the street and you bump into some stranger and you look at each other and you just know.

I think a good place to meet someone is at work, because you see each other on your good days and your bad days. One place I would never want to meet someone is online. I don’t turn my nose up at it. On the contrary, I know people who have found love online. I just can’t do it because of my flaw. If I met a man on a dating website and we dated for a while, and then I told him about my flaw, he might sue the dating website for matching him with someone like me.

I also would like to meet someone organically. I know I’ve said that I simply can’t get involved with anyone but lately, I’ve been feeling like I wouldn’t mind it if I met someone.

They would have to be the nicest person in the world, kind, caring, it’s all I care about. I don’t care what they do for a living at all, if they are wealthy or on the bones of their arse. But if I could wish a man up, they would either be self-employed or retired, so we could travel whenever we want. 

I've recently discovered a new interest. Puppetry.

Ever since I decided to enrol in the course at the Media Makeup Academy, I’ve been thinking more deeply about all forms of special effects makeup, and when I combined that with my studies in animation, puppetry naturally came to mind.

I started thinking about all the puppets that have been part of my life — and I hadn’t even realised it. Shows like Sesame Street, The Muppets, The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth, The NeverEnding Story, and ALF were all part of my childhood. I even remember Hey Hey It’s Saturday — there was that puppet called Dickie Knee who’d pop up from the bottom of the screen.

But it’s not just the iconic puppets I find interesting — it’s the variety of forms: hand puppets, rod puppets, marionettes, full-body puppets, and those incredibly creepy ventriloquist dummies. I’m sure there are many more styles I haven’t even discovered yet.

There’s something deeply moving about the way we, as humans, physically animate an inanimate object. Puppetry has been around for thousands of years — one of the oldest forms of storytelling and ritual theatre in human history. I find that beautiful, magical, and incredibly fascinating. I want to learn more.

In my search, I came across Sue Harris, a professional puppeteer, educator, and storyteller who has been based in South Australia since 1978. She offers one-on-one mentorships, and she sounds like exactly the sort of person I’d love to learn from — and get to know.

Sue is known for using puppetry in therapeutic, educational, and community settings — including work with carers, prisoners, and children affected by trauma. But you know what I really love? She was a lecturer at UniSA from 1997 to 2016, teaching a course called World of Puppetry, and she’s also the author of a book titled A Special Place: Caring for a Parent with Alzheimer’s – The Journey.

She sounds like a truly beautiful person, and I’m planning to contact her — once I’m back into the rhythm of things — to ask if she might be willing to mentor me in puppetry.

The Accidents

I’ve decided that in 2026 I’m going to do the Advanced Diploma of Screen and Media at the Media Makeup Academy. I’m going to devote all my time to finishing my degree in Animation and Game Design, which I’ll complete online, and then I’ll attend the Advanced Diploma three days a week, face-to-face.

The Advanced Diploma runs for around two years, so by the end of 2027 I’ll have both qualifications — and, hopefully, a useful skill set I can generate income from, so I can travel the world!

The application process for the Media Makeup Academy is quite comprehensive. I have to sit a literacy and numeracy test, fill in a lot of forms, and provide various pieces of documentation. One of the required documents is my birth certificate. I didn’t have a copy on hand, so I ordered one online last night — and to my surprise, I received an email this morning saying it was ready.

I definitely wasn’t expecting that kind of fast pace from the Department of Consumer and Business Services, but I was pleasantly surprised. I made my way into Chesser House in town to pick it up, and I took this photo of the sign at the front of the building.

Below you can see the sign directing people to the Customer Service Centre and the Marriage Registry. What’s really beautiful about this sign is the braille beneath the words. Of course, someone could always read the sign aloud to a visually impaired person — but I imagine there’s nothing quite like being able to touch something, to understand it in your own language. There’s a kind of dignity and independence in it.

Picking up my birth certificate was fairly straightforward. When I used to temp in government, I was quite critical of red tape and bureaucracy — but after my experience with the Red Cross, and even today, I’m beginning to see it differently. In some ways, it’s necessary. And for me, the very red tape I once felt was strangling me ended up saving me in the end.

I marched out of the office armed with my birth certificate, and I’m now filling in the rest of the application paperwork. I’ll have it all scanned at Officeworks over the next couple of days.

That was actually a pretty boring little story — but it leads me into another one, which also involves Births, Deaths and Marriages… and it only just happened yesterday.

In June 2024, my dad passed away. It was incredibly sad. Even though he had been living with dementia and Alzheimer’s for many years, his death still came as a shock to all of us. It was deeply upsetting for my mother, for me, and for his other four surviving children.

Dad had been married once before he met my mother. From that first marriage, he had four children: three daughters and a son. I won’t say the son became a man — I’ll say he became a son of a bitch. He recently passed away from frontal lobe dementia, which accelerates much faster than the type Dad had.

From Dad’s first marriage, three daughters remain. They’re all in their sixties now. One of them — let’s call her Marie — has lived a very unconventional life and often seemed quite detached from the rest of the family. She’s moved around remote parts of the state, and the last we heard she was fossicking somewhere out bush. I’ve always thought of her as a dreamer more than anything — someone living in a different reality, but never with any real malice.

The other two daughters, whom I’ll call Lucy and Odette, are more involved and more present, but that didn’t necessarily make things easier. I’ve written about Lucy before on this blog. She once contested her own mother’s will, which caused significant conflict in their family. Years ago, during a difficult time in my life, she tried to support me, but in the process, it felt as though she wanted me to turn against my parents. She has never liked my mother, and she hasn’t hidden that.

Odette, on the other hand, has always reminded me of a very devoted, evangelical personality — outwardly warm, but with an intensity underneath that I found hard to read. Over the years, I sometimes interpreted her kindness as having another layer beneath it, though that was only ever my impression. When Dad was in residential care, she visited him regularly, and I often wondered about her motivations — but again, those were only my own private thoughts, not anything I claim as fact. Mum saw her differently and always believed she was being generous and helpful.

When Dad passed away, I wasn’t surprised that questions about the estate came up. I had a strong feeling that Lucy and Odette would be looking for clarity about whether there was an inheritance. What they may not have known — or perhaps didn’t want to believe — was that there simply wasn’t one. Dad had under $2000 in his bank account when he died.

In the years before his passing, Dad had experienced significant cognitive decline due to dementia, and during that time he continued trading shares, which resulted in large financial losses. Eventually my parents had no choice but to sell their home. For the first time in her life, Mum no longer owned property, and now she and I rent my brother’s house. If he ever decided to sell, we’d both be in a difficult position.

Lucy called Mum first, asking about the will. Mum explained, truthfully, that there was no money. Lucy seemed unconvinced and pressed her for explanations about where the money had gone. Mum didn’t owe her those explanations — but she gave them anyway.

Then Lucy rang my brother with similar questions. She mentioned that Dad had once planned to set up a trust for Marie, but my brother simply told her the truth: there was nothing left.

Later, Odette contacted Mum as well. She said she was putting together a scrapbook and wanted a copy of Dad’s will for it. Mum agreed, as she was legally entitled to see it, though when Mum told me that, I just thought to myself, “What kind of person puts a copy of their father’s will in a scrapbook?” It struck me as such an odd request.

After Odette reviewed it, Mum called her, and Odette seemed distant. I was sitting right beside Mum when that call happened, and the change in tone felt noticeable.

Then yesterday, Mum’s accountant — who is also one of the executors of the will — received an email from Odette. She opened the letter with “Dear Messrs Smith,” which struck me as unusually formal. She thanked him for his previous email and pointed out that it hadn’t been signed, before asking him to clarify the contents of the will. She wrote that the will didn’t seem to align with things Dad had said to her and her siblings over the years.

She noted that Dad had lost his driver’s licence at 87, the same age he was when the will was drafted, and expressed concern about whether he fully understood complex documents by that stage. She implied that Mum may have been making more decisions for him, and wondered whether the will reflected his genuine intentions.

She then recounted past conversations she said had taken place — family dinners where Dad reportedly referred to my brother and me as “accidents,” and various statements about how the estate might one day be divided. These were her recollections, and I can’t verify them, but she raised them in her letter to argue that the will didn’t match her understanding of Dad’s plans.

She finished by asking a series of questions about Dad’s financial affairs: his superannuation, the sale of the house, the share portfolio, and whether any trusts existed. The overall tone made it clear that she wanted reassurance that everything had been handled correctly. She closed by expressing affection for Dad and saying she had been the one who visited him most often in aged care, and that she simply wanted to understand his true intentions. She then set a deadline for a detailed response.

First and foremost, I want to say that the email really upset my mother. By pursuing this line of questioning, Odette is essentially implying that Mum is hiding money from the rest of the family — and that hurt her deeply.

At the same time, I was still feeling hurt from something my brother had said to me. I’d recently told him that he and I reminded me of puma cubs — close in youth, then forced to go our separate ways — and he had completely dismissed the sentiment. That stung. But I had to put that aside and send him the email anyway. We ended up having a long talk about it.

When I say “the first family,” I do so deliberately — because to me, they are not my family. I can count the number of conversations I’ve had with any of them on two hands. They’d sometimes come around to visit Dad, and if I was home, I’d politely say hello — but they don't know the first thing about me.

My brother believes the email was a joint effort — written by both Lucy and Odette. He also said that by sending it, Odette must have known she was burning the last bridge. That she wouldn’t speak to any of us again. He told me outright that he wouldn’t attend either of their funerals.

I responded lightheartedly, “I would go — just to make sure they were really dead.”

That email really made me think: is it normal to feel entitled to an inheritance from our parents?

When Lucy contested her own mother’s will — because she didn’t get as much as she thought she deserved — my mum said she believed parents do have a responsibility to provide for their children, even after death. I suppose there’s some truth to that, but for me personally, I never expected a thing. Not a cent.

My parents spent so much on me throughout my life. The idea of demanding more after they’re gone just doesn’t sit right. I would never presume to be entitled to anything. The reality is that Mum and Dad were once millionaires, and now my mother has almost nothing. She lost everything.

I recently came into a small sum of money and gave most of it to Mum. I'm going to keep the rest aside — just enough in case we need to cover legal costs. I’m hoping we won’t have to use it, though. I’m hoping that once Odette receives the response from the lawyer the accountant connected us with — she’ll back down and let it go.

After receiving Odette’s email, my accountant sought legal advice. He arranged for a lawyer to come out to his office and meet with Mum and me this Friday. But before that, he forwarded me an email the lawyer had sent — one that outlined his initial advice. In it, the lawyer said he intended to respond directly to Odette, making it clear that there is quite literally no money, and that pursuing anything further would be a waste of her time.

But you know what truly moved me? This precious human being said he didn’t want to meet with Mum — because he didn’t want to generate unnecessary legal costs, given how small the estate is. That shifted something in me. It changed the way I see lawyers, even just a little. That kind of thoughtfulness isn’t something you expect.