Dad’s booming voice shakes the picture frames on my parent’s living room walls. I’m sitting on their sofa, hands clutched together in my lap, while Mum “softens the ground” with him in the kitchen.
“She did,what?”
My phone lights up on the sofa cushion next to me.
Eef: How’s it going? Told him yet?
Clee: Would you give her a chance to scratch her arse, FFS. She just got there.
Mum’s voice is too low to be heard from where I’m sitting, but then Dad yells, “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child, Thelma.”
My spine stiffens.
My hands tremble, my knees shake. Dad’s never once lifted his hand to any of us, Taranis included, but by God, his loud and thunderous voice has scared the shit out of me since I was wee.
It was usually Clíodhna he yelled at. Despite having fourchildren, Clee has always had that middle child vibe going on. And when he’d yell at her, I’d grab the closest book and a torch, and hide in my closet, escaping into a fantasy world while he yelled at her.
This time, the yelling is about me, and it’ll be heading my way any time now. I don’t expect Mum to bite back. So, when I hear a clipped, “Then stop acting like a fucking child, Michael.” I jam a fist to my mouth to stop the stunned giggle threatening to fall out.
Go, Mum! That’s a group chat worthy update right there.
Rhiannon: Mum just called him a child.
I don’t think I could ever return fire to Dad like that. I just go quiet, retreat into my own head, and let him shout until he flares out.
Eef: If the shoe fits…
By contrast, Aoife has always yelled back at him. Something about being the youngest child means she can get away with murder. I mean it. She could come home covered in blood from a murder spree, and my parents would be like, “Come on in, Aoife love, let’s get you cleaned up and here’s your favorite meal for dinner.”
“You’ll need to have that injunction or restraining order removed, or whatever that thing you got against him is called.” Mum’s voice is measured as she broaches the topic that’s been bubbling in my brain.
“I will fucking not.”
“Michael Morrigan,” Mum starts. “Your daughters hunt in a pack. If you don’t tear up that piece of paper, Rhiannon won’t come back here, and if she doesn’t, the other two won’t either.”
She has a point. As much as the girls love and are afraid of Dad, the three of us are thicker than thieves.
“I’m her agent, Thelma. I’ve been in this business a long time.”
Mum stays quiet, letting him get whatever he needs to off his chest. I hear the click of the kettle through the wall, the cupboard door open, and the clink of mugs as they hit the counter.
“What the hell was she thinking? That piece of shit reporter, too. Fuck. It’s like she said to herself, ‘How could I possibly make this whole situation worse?’ and then went and did that.”
Mum’s voice is low and muffled again, I think her head’s in the fridge getting milk.
I brace for him bursting through the door, the imminent explosion. I dig at the cuticle on my thumbnail until it draws blood. I’ll tell him I’m being responsible. George trashed me online the second he could, there was no going back to him without ending up in jail for his murder. I needed to do something to protect myself, my sisters, my fucking team. That’s what he would have wanted me to do, right? Just because he doesn’t like the man I’m doing it with doesn’t mean it’s the wrong play, right?
Órlaith told me I needed to do something, and I am. She’s the expert; this is her job. The team pay her a lot of money for instances just like this one. It’s my job to trust her guidance, do as she says, and make sure that nothing else comes of it that could reflect poorly on my career and my teammates.
That’s what I’ll tell him, as soon as he comes in here. I’ll stand, dry my sticky palms on my jeans, and explain my side of the story to him. He’ll realize it was the only thing to do.
The words sound right in my head, like a well-rehearsed PR statement. But they don’t land anywhere—just echo.
Instead of the confrontation my poised muscles areexpecting, there’s a frustrated grunt and footsteps echoing through the closed door I’m sitting behind in the living room. The front door clicks shut. No slam, no curse, no echo—just the hollow thud of absence. The kind that swallows every other sound until all that’s left is the pulse pounding in my ears.
He left?
Surely not.
