Slowly, shakily, she stepped forward and closed the distance between them.
"I don’t know how to do this," she said, voice raw.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "Together. One step at a time.”
Aisling pressed her forehead against his chest, her hands curling into the fabric of his jacket, and breathed deeply of his smell. For the first time in her life, she let herself be held by her father.
Not perfectly. Not without pain.
But maybe, just maybe, with a little hope.
An hour later, the fire had long gone cold, but Patrick knelt in front of it like it was a sacred task, stacking kindling and logs with careful precision.
Aisling stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, unsure what to do with her hands. Her heart was still rattling from everything that had just happened. She clutched the old photograph to her chest, feeling the edges bite into her palms.
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Tea?"
She almost laughed. Was there anything more Irish than trying to fix a shattered lifetime with a strong cup of tea?
"Sure," she said, her voice rough.
By the time she returned with two chipped mugs and the battered old teapot—one of Noreen’s favorites—the fire was crackling and throwing soft light into the room. The stone walls seemed less cold. Less lonely.
Patrick accepted the mug she handed him with both hands as if it were something precious.
For a while, they just sat on opposite sides of the hearth, sipping in silence.
Aisling finally broke it. Because if they were going to do this, really do it, then she wasn’t going to pretend it was easy.
"You missed a lot," she said quietly, staring into the flames.
"I know," he replied, just as softly. "And I regret every second of it."
She traced her finger around the rim of her mug. "I grew up believing I wasn't wanted. Not by my mother’s family. Not by any father. And sometimes not even by my mother herself."
Patrick closed his eyes for a moment as if the truth hurt to hear.
"I would have wanted you," he said. "God, Aisling, if I'd known?—"
"You didn’t." Her voice cracked. "And you can’t go back."
He nodded grimly. "But I can go forward. If you'll let me."
She looked at him then, really looked. At the lines etched into his face. At the eyes so much like her own. At the regret he wasn’t even trying to hide.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet," she said. "But... I want to try."
Hope flared in his eyes, raw and bright. It almost undid her.
"I want to know everything," she said, sitting up straighter. "I want the real story. Not the sanitized version."
"You deserve nothing less," Patrick said, setting his mug down carefully.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
"When I met your mother, I was drowning," he said. "My marriage was falling apart. I felt like I was failing everyone, my wife, my students, my own damn self. I’d escaped to Dublin to save myself.”
He smiled a little sadly. "Maeve was like a lightning bolt. She challenged me. She made me feel alive again. Not just admired, not just tolerated, but seen."
