“It’s for you. I was just tidying up in yer father’s room and I found it behind the bed.” I open it and see barely legible handwriting in black pen written crookedly across the page. “It’s from yer father.”

I can’t look at it. I glance at her. “Did you read it?”

She nods. “I did.” Then she turns and leaves the room.

Oh fuck.

What could this be?

I take in a deep breath and my hands are shaking the paper as I look down at it and try to read.

Son, it says and tears automatically spring to my eyes, just from that one bloody word, just from one last word from my father.

Son,

I can’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking about what I said to you. I can’t sleep because there isn’t much life left in me. I hope I can even finish this letter. I hope you can understand it. I’m afraid if I close my eyes that it will be the end and I can’t let it be the end unless I tell you that I love you. You were never a disappointment Padraig. I’ve always been so proud of you and too stubborn to say it. I’ll tell you that now in case I don’t have the strength to write it later.

When your mother told me she was pregnant with Clara, I was so happy and yet so bloody scared. We were both older and I was worried about her. At the same time I wanted to make sure with Clara I didn’t make the same mistakes with you. Because I did make mistakes. Maybe every father does. Maybe I’m just not cut out for being a father but you do what you have to.

When your mother and Clara died, I was so lost and angry and I turned from you because I thought it would make things easier should I lose you too. It was my biggest regret.

Now my biggest regret is telling you the things I did. I understand why you lied. I see into your heart Padraig and I see the young boy that I failed and I can’t blame you one bit. I felt foolish and stupid and I was so caught up in my pride that I said things I didn’t mean. You’re not a disappointment. I told you that already but I’ll tell you again. You are a fantastic son and I am so very proud of you and all that you’ve done and all that you will do. And I can tell you love Valerie too. How can you not? She’s a real looker.

I hope when you read this letter that you remember all of this. And remember the good times. We had those too. Take care of McGavin for me and your nan and even the Major too.

You are my world Padraig, all of it.

Love,

Your old dad.

I can barely read the last sentence because the tears have diluted and smudged them. I can only press the letter to my chest, and cry.

“I love you too Dad,” I say aloud through a choked sob, needing for him to hear me. Feelings of relief and grief wash over me, like being caught in a downpour, a raging river, a flood that clips you at the ankles and takes you off your feet.

I fall back asleep, holding that letter.

24

Valerie

“Valerie, breakfast is ready!” my mom calls from downstairs.

I’m at my computer, trying to finish the chapter I’m working on. I’ve been up since six am because I couldn’t sleep, thoughts and feeling invading every space in my head. The only way out of it is through this book. I don’t even know what the hell the book is about really, all I know is it’s helping me deal with the pain in my chest and every time I feel the urge to cry, I just start typing and let those tears fall.

I save my work and head downstairs.

My mom is making pancakes. Every morning this week she’s made some different kind of breakfast. Yesterday it was French toast, the day before was waffles. I’m starting to think that maybe she’s compensating in the other direction and trying to fatten me up now.

I don’t care. At least I’m getting good food out of it.

“Morning mom,” I say to her, sitting down at the table. “Where’s dad?”

She comes around and puts the pancakes in front of me and pours me a cup of coffee. “He’s playing golf.”

“In this weather?” February in Philadelphia is no joke.

“You know your father,” she says, sitting down beside me, sipping on her coffee. She clears her throat. “So I talked to Angie and Sandra this morning. They’ll be here this afternoon.”

“I thought they were coming here tomorrow?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess this was easier for them.”

Good. I mean, I love that my mom and I have grown closer over this last week but I’m needing more of a buffer. I don’t expect my mom to change overnight and she has a lot of work that she needs to do on herself, but the fact that she’s trying is also a bit of a strain. She’s going to be shitty again at some point and I need for her to know that it’s okay if she is. I don’t want it to unravel everything.

Besides, I’ve missed my sisters dearly. I’ve been texting with them all week and they’re such good shoulders to cry on because they met Padraig, so they know what the man is like and what I’m losing. But sometimes you need an actual shoulder to cry on instead of a proverbial one.

They’re only supposed to come out for the weekend but maybe after that I’ll go with Sandra back to LA and spend a week in the sunshine or something. I know I have to think about job prospects, too. I need to stop moping and get my shit together.

It’s just this damn heart of mine. It never listens to my mind and now my mind knows that I have to get things back on track and start over but the heart isn’t having any of it. It wants to drown and pine and burn and ache.

God, how my heart aches for Padraig. It’s this acute pain deep in my core that steals my breath and directs all my attention away from everything else. It’s the pain that’s so physical that you’re keeling over, praying for it to stop. That’s the loss. That’s the grief. That’s what I need to figure out how to move past. Every day I think I’m getting better and then something will remind me of Padraig and I’m on my knees again and bawling my eyes out.

After breakfast, I’m about to go have another writing session with the book when Angie and Sandra send me a group text:

Hey we’re here come meet us!

I frown, texting back: What r u talking about?

I look outside the window but I don’t see anything. I add, R u at the house?

I wait for the long reply. We’re downtown. You know where Timothy’s coffee is? We’re there.

Why? Just come here.

We don’t want to go there yet. The less time with mom the better. Plus Sandra is spending money on stupid stuff.

Louis Vuitton is not stupid!

I guess a shopping date in downtown Philly doesn’t sound all that bad. It will get me out of the house and I feel like I’ve been stuck in here forever.

K what time? I’ll leave now. I’ll take an Uber.

How about 30 min?

See ya soon.

That doesn’t leave me too much time, so I change out of my pajamas into jeans and a plaid shirt, pull my hair back into a ponytail, swipe a coating of mascara on my pale lashes so I don’t look like a baby chick, then slick on some mauve lip gloss, and then I’m calling the Uber, grabbing my coat and heading out the door.

Traffic isn’t that bad this time of day so I get there fast and I’m just about to exit the vehicle when another text comes in from them.

Running a bit late, save us a table.

I groan. I hate being the first one in a café or restaurant and having to deal with all the “is this seat taken?”

I get out of the car and head into the shop, momentarily dazzled by the glitz and glamor of downtown Philly, the smell of the exhaust and the hustle and bustle of people going places and making things happen. It makes me realize I need to come down here more often.

Maybe I should move here, I think to myself as I walk inside the café and go to the counter to order a latte, my eyes scanning the shop and taking note of the free tables. There’s one in the corner that will be perfect and I hope I can get my coffee before someone snatches it up.

But even though the idea of moving to another city and starting over again isn’t all bad, where I really want to move to and where I really want to start my life over is so far away from me. So far in so many different ways that it feels like nothing but a lovely dream.

I order a matcha latte with almond milk and when the barista gives it to me, I notice the design in the foam is of a green four-leaf clover.

Fuck. A shamrock.

Okay, don’t cry, hold it together. It’s just latte art, nothing more.

This is what I mean about the smallest things setting me off.

Somehow I keep the tears back and make it over to the table.

I sit down, facing the shop with a clear view of the door for when Sandra and Angie walk in.

I hope I don’t breakdown and cry when I’m here.

I mean, I should prepare for it because these damn tears are at the floodgates and they’re barely being held back. I can’t even look at the fucking latte art right now and my sisters have a way of making it all come out because that’s what sisters are for.

I’m so fucking thankful for them, I need to tell them that more often.

I need to tell them that going to Ireland with them changed my life and I am so happy that they invited me. I don’t know where I’d be right now if I hadn’t gone, but I wouldn’t have known Agnes or the Major or Colin. I wouldn’t have loved Padraig. And … I think loving Padraig was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

The ache returns and my heart shudders.

A single tear rolls down my cheek.

As I’m wiping it away with a napkin, someone walks through the door to the coffee shop.

I just see the silhouette out of the corner of my eye.

But a silhouette is all it takes.

The napkin falls out of my hands.

He spots me at the back and walks toward me, hands in the pockets of his black peacoat, looking so very European amongst the people in the shop. It’s enough that patrons turn to stare at him as he goes.

But he only has eyes for me.

They burn into me with such heat and brilliance that all the hurt in my body begins to fall away, like I’m sloughing off dead skin that doesn’t serve a purpose anymore.