The house where my mother died. The house where I saw my father cry for the first — and last — time. Hunched over, alone, standing in the formal sitting room. His once intimidating 183 centimetre frame just one light shove away from collapse, his stature further dwarfed by the room's double-height ceilings. Unnecessarily grand. A design luxury leftover from the decadent decade of the house's completion (the 1980s) and/or an architectural response to the vicious slope of the land.Nothing in Illawong is level. Only a few years before we settled here it was just acreage. Farmland without crops, streets hastily carved between subdivisions and named after the beneficiary. Paths twist around obstacles, the land only awkwardly flattened where absolutely essential, with all roads left as steep inclines. Or declines. Dependent on your direction — heading in further, down to the Georges River or, more likely, trying to escape.But long before decampment was the paramount goal, Illawong was a tranquil place. A haven for the young. Bushland to get lost amidst, characteristics of disguise later repurposed for pot lands and a scattering of speed-lab sheds. Cul-de-sacs, with cold stares directed at those double our age who had no business disrupting the exceptional overrate of the rubbish bin cricket test match. Broken arms and bike ramps, "built" from stolen plywood and half-a-dozen bricks. Later, boredom and burnouts and bongs and running from cab drivers via concealed, locals-only fire trails and small pathways that run between plots, providing blind connections between the rabbit-warren streets.The split-level residences were similarly illogically structured. Labyrinths of hallways and rooms, void of unison or architectural foresight. Extensions added simply as indicators of financial improvement. A broadcast to the Joneses, unnecessary extra space for Jonny and his army of fucking Tamagotchis. And then Playstations and then Pamela Anderson posters and then hidden marijuana paraphernalia. The latter leaving an odour trail throughout the corridors of the house. And leaving parents disappointed. A potent leaf (diluted with tobacco despite dissatisfaction) that was placed ever-so-gently upon that camel's back. As the environment's repose, once its proudest asset, finally completed its predictable evolution to entrapment. And we arrive, on that well-worn pathway leading to the forked intersection. Not unlike the split road that leads you down to the mansions of Letterbox Lane, where 1% of the suburb's residents dwell. Pristine "mangrove glimpses", the envy of the remaining 99%.Our decisive moment of truth coincided with enrolment into adulthood and all those associated spoils. Kids with wider eyes for stronger drugs. Bigger buildings, less trees. Bigger ideas and more complications. But restlessness — so bloody much of it. Leading to spirit surges, motivation upturns and an unwillingness to simply concede under the weight of monotony. A decision. Settle in, or get out.