SOMETIMES, I WONDER if I imagined her. She told me she was a croupier, but I had no idea what that word meant at the time. Who, in their right mind, leaves a six-year-old under the care of a part-time Crown Casino dealer, anyway? To me, she was a dealer: she dealt cards. 

Her name was Michelle. I remember her running up the driveway in her little maroon vest, white shirt and black skirt after pulling night shifts. She would clock off and catch public transport to our outer-western suburb of bumfuck nowhere to get make sure I didn’t burn the house down when left to my own devices. The trip, just one way, she told me, would take an hour and a half. She didn’t even have time to shower after her shift. My mother would leave for work just after letting Michelle in through the front door.