Inside: a scarf that still smelled faintly of lavender. A half-filled photo album. And a shoebox labeled in fading marker: “Cards.”
Dozens of unopened birthday cards for her mother Maeve. Postmarked Ireland.
From Noreen O’Byrne, her mother.
Aisling’s breath caught.
Ripping open one, it said,Happy birthday, Sweetheart. I miss you and love you, Mother.
She’d never paid attention. Hadn’t known who they were from. But now?—
Her grandmother had written every year.
Maeve just never told Aisling.
Back in the living room, she opened the pizza box and ate a slice without tasting it. Then she opened her laptop and typed:
Mountshannon, County Clare, Ireland.
The images were stunning. Misty green hills. A lake so blue it looked painted. Sheep-dotted meadows. Ruins. A pub called The Last Drop.
It looked like something from a tourism ad or a dream.
She narrowed her search.
The O’Byrne Estate.
Only one photo came up, a grainy shot from twenty years ago. It showed a large stone house partially obscured by ivy and trees, a crumbling wall, and the outline of grandeur.
Her throat tightened.
Was this her chance?
To escape the noise?
To finally write that novel?
To remember who she was before Michael and the grind?
She grabbed the letter again. Reread the part about restoration funds.
It was enough to live on for a while.
To breathe.
To rebuild.
To begin.
She could go for six months. Fix up the house. See what her roots looked like. Then, walk away if it wasn’t right.
But deep down, she already knew.
Something inside her, some deep, quiet part she hadn’t heard from in years, whispered,Go.
She looked out her window at the streetlight-stained pavement of New York. The honking. The hum. The endless rush.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like home.
