During the holidays, I missed him like my heart had been cut from my chest.
There’d be no more sneaky kisses under the mistletoe or finding gifts dotted around the house before Christmas. No fidgety hand to hold in church or corn anything to make for the fiend…
But I had my children.
And, maybe, Paddy.
And all my glorious grandbabies.
Now, if only Inessa would add to the pile, I’d die a happy woman.
My smile turned wistful. “You’re always my boy.”
“What about us?” Declan and Eoghan chimed in.
“Oh, hush, the lot of you. I loved my gifts, by the way. I can’t believe you remembered I loveCapodimante.It’s years since I bought any.” Tears pricked my eyes at their thoughtfulness. “Now, what time are we opening presents?”
Aoife caught my eye and, timidly, I smiled at her. She smiled back, and a world of hurt shone back at me.
I was to blame for that.
So many sins I’d committed against that girl, and while some should have put me in a cell, I thought the worst was the rupture of our own relationship.
I still thought of her as my daughter, even if she hated my guts.
When she ducked away, I didn’t comment and nobody else did either. Another sin—I’d done this. Brought this tension to the family. A tension that was impossible to heal.
It was why I’d agreed to this ‘vacation.’
Aoife deserved to host the holiday meal without stressing about what to do with the problem that wasme.
Eventually, Star disappeared and Conor took her place as they both fiddled around with whatever they’d done to the TV.
“Did Alessa manage to come?” I asked.
“No. Stomach flu’s swept through the Sinners’ compound,” Conor answered, glancing up from a screen.
My Aidan would have been rolling around in his grave if he knew we were breaking bread on Christmas Day itself with some bikers, but… it wasn’t his time anymore.
It was our sons’.
Aidan poured some whiskey into a glass then made a toast. “Thanks for this, boys. I’d offer you some, but it’s wasted on your plebeian tongues.”
“Don’t worry. I can cut his out now that you got me my Damascus,” Eoghan drawled.
“Eoghan,” I reprimanded. “What’s a Damascus?”
“A special knife, Ma,” he chirped.
“How special?”
“Six-hundred plus layers of Damascus steel and the handle’s made from five-thousand-year-old bog oak?—”
“That’s also a kitchen knife,” Finn drawled. “Not for slitting throats.”
“Finn!” Aoife chided. “Not in front of the kids.”
“They’re not interested.” He wafted a hand at the tree and the chaos of so many of our babies tussling over whose gift was whose.
