When the door opened and the skeletons were released, my world was changed.  I was a half-blood now - a half-sister, and, I was of mixed race.  I didn’t belong anymore … not completely.  I was neither here nor there.  Exiled  … a strange and lonely place.

A few years later Opportunity reached out to me … and, oh so gingerly, I accepted.  Here was the chance to confirm the fantasies that had whirled around in my head … the fantasies of a father who might be looking for me, his long-lost daughter!  Here was the prospect of discovering a “new” family and the chance to learn of my heritage. With equal measures of unease and excitement I took Opportunity’s hand and let her lead me.

My father lived in a town nearby where I lived as a young child.  The town was the same town in which I went to High School.  I had moved away from this area when I was 16 and I now lived many, many miles away.

I had been put in touch with the Parish Priest of the town where my father lived.  The priest was acquainted with people from my father’s neighbourhood.  Discreetly, he made enquiries about my father and his family.  What he relayed to me was startling … almost absurd.   

As I listened, my hands began to tremble and a murky shadow was dancing around in my head.  The priest continued but I was struggling to make sense of the story he was telling me.  Was this a plot for a daytime soap opera?  Why can’t anything be simple?  Why isn’t anything in my life just simple and easy? Why me?

The priest was telling me that my father’s neighbours were scared of him … of his family.  They liked to keep their distance.  Mafia connections the priest was saying.  Mafia!  You’re joking, right?  No.   Oh, this has got to be a joke!  Mafia in Australia?  What, you’re serious!  What did you say? Someone was killed!

That horrible feeling was back.  My world being turned upside down … again.  This is not happening.  Oh God … this isn’t happening, is it?  Sorry, the priest replied.

The priest begins to talk again.  My head is buzzing … it won’t keep still.  I try to focus.  Later I recall some of what I had heard … Married … Grown children…  Owns businesses next to home … Runs florist shop with his wife … Mother lives around the corner.

I thank the priest for his help but let him know I have enough trouble in my life already and I couldn’t afford to bring any more into it.  Thanks again, I say, and hang up the phone.

That was that.  I didn’t want to … couldn’t … bring any more upset into my life.

A few more years passed.  My husband and I were heading south on holidays.  I wanted to take my family to the Blue Mountains … near where I had lived as a child and which held a particularly fond memory for me.  Curiosity reared its head and with coaxing from my husband we decided to drive to my father’s neighbourhood, past his home, past his businesses, past his mum’s house.  What harm could it do?  We’re just driving past and I could have a little snapshot of the place where my father lived.  It would be something of mine.

Slowly, very slowly, we drive past his house.  Then his mother’s … my grandmother’s.  We then see the businesses.  There was the Florist shop, a convenience store, units on top and office space.

My husband parks the car.  What are you doing? I ask. He tells me he is just going to pop into the shop and get an ice cream for the kids.  When he comes back he says I should go into the shop. He tells me that no-one will know who I am.  Why don’t you just go in and buy a bunch of flowers?   I suppose I could.  Yes, no-one knows who I am. 

I get out of the car and start towards the shop. I hesitate.  I’m so nervous.  My insides have turned to jelly.  I look back at my husband and he signals for me to keep going.

A bell rings as I enter through the shop’s door.  I hesitate again.  A man, wearing black glasses, enters from a room at the back of the shop. I’m flustered.  What do I do now? Yes, flowers.  Look at the flowers.

The man approaches and asks if he can help me.  Ah, yes, I want some flowers … um, some natives perhaps?  Just be normal, I’m telling myself.  As the man begins to point out some flowers, I steal a look at him.  I try to sound interested in the flowers he is showing me but I’m distracted.  I’m trying to fix a picture of this man in my head. I have only a few brief minutes which will need to last me a lifetime!

Quietly pilfering every chance I can to look at the man, I’m struck by the thought that this man doesn’t look anything like I had imagined and he’s probably not my father at all.  He is short and stocky.  He has dark hair and an olive skin.   On the other hand, I have red hair, fair skin, freckles and I’m tall.  I couldn’t see any resemblance.  No, he isn’t my father.

As a selection of flowers is made, I hear voices coming from the back room.  The voices are those of a child and a lady.

The man asks if the flowers are for a special occasion.  They’re for someone special I say, a lady.  The man says he will wrap them very nicely for me.  As he does so, he asks if I live locally.  No, I respond, I’m just passing through.  My family and I are heading to the Blue Mountains for a holiday.  He makes some small talk and as he continues, I wonder again if this man could be my father.  I guess he could.  I have no idea what my father looks like.   Maybe it is him.

A little boy runs into the shop from the back room.  He looks about four years old.  This is my grandson, the man says.  Say “hello” and then off you go … back to Nonna.  The little boy clutches his grandfather’s legs, grins coyly and then runs back where he had come from.

The flowers are now wrapped and a red ribbon adorns them.  As I pay for the flowers, the bell on the shop door rings as my husband and children step inside.  Surprised by their appearance, I quickly let the man know that this is my family.

The kids are busy finishing off the remains of their ice creams but give the man a quick smile.  Like the little boy who was in the shop just a few minutes earlier clinging to his grandfather, my little daughter, runs and attaches herself to me whilst her three brothers stay very close to their dad.

Hubby explains they were hot in the car so decided to get out.  But I know that it was curiosity that brought him through the door.  He was curious if I had met my father … curious about what he looked like …curious about what we were talking about … and curious if I had revealed who I was.

The man says I have a lovely family.  I thank him.

He hands me my flowers.  There’s really nothing more to do but leave.  I thank him again and he says, Have a lovely holiday.

Do you think that was him? Hubby asks. I don’t know.  It seemed that he was the owner of the shop.  Maybe it was him but I didn’t know.  I don’t know what to think.

It’s near lunchtime and we have about an hour’s drive to the Blue Mountains ahead of us so we decide to go to the local shopping centre for lunch before we head off.  Conversation turns to the man … my father?  My husband prompts me to call the man at the shop and tell him who I am. He says, You don’t have to give him any details.  Just find out if it was him.  I agree that maybe I could.

With further encouragement, I nervously go to a public phone, look up the number for the Florist Shop and call.

Hello.  I’m the lady that was in there a little while ago …  I bought the native flowers.  Yes, that’s right, the lady with the four children.  I hesitate … God, I’m nervous!  I think you might be my father.  I was born 33 years ago and I was named Maria.

Silence on the end of the phone for a short period but then …. Surprisingly, Yes.  I remember your mother.

Oh God!  This is my father!  What now?  What do I say?  I somehow didn’t expect him to say anything.  I thought he would probably just hang up.

Do you remember me? I ask.  Yes, he says.  I called you Maria.

What do you say in a situation like this?  I had no idea what I was doing.

How have you been? I managed to ask.  What an odd question to be asking a father I had never met, I thought.  He begins to talk.  It was strange.  He talks to me as if we knew each other but just hadn’t spoken for a while.  He tells me he hasn’t been too well in recent times.  That he was working for a company but had to leave about a year earlier.  My mind was jumping all over the place and my heart was pounding.  I was finding it difficult to focus on what he was saying.  Instead I was trying to work out what I would say next.  It was worrying me. I was flustered again.  I just didn’t know what I wanted to say or what I wanted to ask.

I hear him, my father, asking me where I lived.  Everything seemed to stand still at this moment but some clarity seemed to come back to me.  I recalled what the priest had told me about Mafia connections and about neighbours being scared.  I knew that the man I had met today seemed very normal … he was a dad and a grandfather.  Nothing seemed odd or out of place but I quickly decide I have to answer vaguely and not reveal any details.   On the North Coast, I say.

I listen as he talks some more…. I think he says has four children … the eldest is a boy but the only name I can recall is Caterina.  Funny that … the Italian version of the name I now had!

Sadly, it’s time to go and I say to my father, “I want you to know that I don’t want anything from you or your family.  I don't want to cause you any trouble."  I continued my goodbye ... "I just wanted to let you know that our paths have crossed.”