I’d been planning to take them to a fancy new restaurant. There were some walks out west I thought would be lovely.

Mum quite likes Auckland. Dad, it’s fair to say, does not. But when they arrived in the ‘09 together for the first time in a couple of years, they both had the same thing at the very top of the priority list.

They wanted to see my new home.

I slipped the key in the front door and before I’d even pushed it open, Mum was gushing.

“Oh, Darling,” she said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Mum!” I said.

“It’s only the hallway. At least save your praise until you’ve seen a bedroom or two.”

Mum... didn’t save her praise.

She loved the bedroom. She loved the study. She loved the bathrooms and the lounge. She loved the cupboard with the washing machine and the skylight above the bath.

For five minutes, she walked around with her hands on her hips, loving everything, admiring everything, praising everything, and beaming.

“It’s fantastic, darling. Perfect. It’s gonna’ make a wonderful home.”

Dad, did not tour the house with the same technique or enthusiasm.

He stepped inside, kicked off his boots, and immediately started examining the seal on my bedroom window.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What’s the putty status on these things?”

“Umm.. I dunno. I think it’s ok.”

“Sash windows” he said.

“Only bottom opening. A simple mechanism but fiddly with the cords. You’ve gotta keep an eye on these things, son.”

He walked into the lounge and lifted a blind.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Mold. Get a butter knife and let’s check this. We’ll strip back the paint, prime it, putty it, sand it, prime it, paint it. It’s gonna need attention on the outside, too.”

Room by room, he stepped around the house like a forensic investigator, testing every switch, twiddling every door handle, squinting at the corners where the ceilings meet the walls and running his finger along every window frame like a hunter seeking an animal’s scent.

“Water!” He’d say.

“You’ve gotta look for it. Water gets in everywhere.”

He stood outside and checked the deck. He checked the branches on the trees in my backyard. He pointed out invasive climbing plants and ran his eyes along every exterior weatherboard.

“Water!” he said.

“It gets in everywhere.”

The tour alone took more than hour. A few days later, by the time they left, Dad had fixed, rehung, or altered no fewer than eight different doors in my home. He’d prepped a window for priming and a linen closet for gib-stopping. He’d bought chisels, a paint brush, filler and methylated spirits, and he’d found a corner of a exterior door frame where the wood felt like sodden cardboard.

“Water!” he said.

“It gets in everywhere.”

We didn’t make it to the restaurant I’d intended to visit. We didn’t make it out west. We didn’t go for nice walks or do the kind of big city things that aren’t so easy when you live in a town of less than 300 people.

Instead we spent the whole time with screwdrivers and spirit levels, packing out hinges, and drilling holes for striker plates. It was all good for Mum – she loved my home. But the night before he left, Dad was horrified to discover a door he hadn’t previously noticed, where the old panelled wood was far too big to ever close properly in the frame.

“Gaaaah!” He said.

“That’s gonna kill me.”

“But next time I’m up, bring my jack plane.”

Mum quite likes Auckland. Dad does not. But it’s nice to know they’ll be back.