There’s no answer waiting, now or ever.
When it’s over, people drift toward the gates in loose groups. I overhear someone mention lunch. A reservation at a local restaurant. My sisters and brother load into a car with Mum. No one looks in my direction or invites me.
Mum pauses before she gets in. Hands folded, gaze fixed somewhere past me. For a second, I think she might make eye contact.
She doesn’t.
Afterward, I walk.
Past the hotel where I worked after college. Past the first cramped office where Isis Management existed in name only. Past the flat Avonna and I bought, where we seduced Liam and never looked back. Past clubs where my bands played to little pubs and restaurants that made up my life back then.
Each place holds a version of me I needed to experience. None of them fit anymore.
Dublin doesn’t judge. It simply remembers.
By the time I turn back toward the hotel, my legs ache and my breath comes easier. Grief permeates my body, but it’s no longer sharp. I did what I came to do. Showed up. Was present where it mattered.
I can live with the effort I made. When I leave, I won’t carry regret with me.
Even if no one else wanted me there, I showed up anyway.
For him.
Two days later, I go back. My mother opens the door and steps aside. Not an invitation. Not a refusal. An obligation fulfilled.
The house feels smaller than I remember. Narrower. As if grief has closed all the walls in. We stand in the hall. Coats still on. Neither of us moves to sit.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” I tell her. “To him.”
She nods once. “So you did.”
“And…” I hold up my hand, “ to you.”
“Well, then, there’s nothin’ more left to say.” Her mouth presses thin. “You’ve chosen a path.”
“I’ve chosen to be true to myself.” I shake my head in frustration.
She turns then, and really looks at me. Not with anger. With something colder. Resolution.
“Linus. I can’t accept your life,” she states plain and final. “I won’t pretend I can.”
The words land heavy, clean. No cruelty in them. No softness either.
“I didn’t come to ask you to pretend,” I reply. “I came to tell you I’m happy.”
“Happiness isn’t always proof of being right.” Her hands fold in front of her.
“I’m not askin’ to be right.”
Silence draws out between us, deep and unbridgeable.
“You’re my son,” she says at last. “But I’ve already mourned your loss.”
Wow. There it is. The truth I came for.
“I won’t ask you to change,” she continues. “I won’t change myself.”
“I understand.”
