“I’m coming with you.”
“Patrick—”
“I’mstaying, Erin.”
I nod gratefully and feel the anxiety fleeing
from every part of my body.
He is with me.
He is here to stay.
His closeness and his tight grip on my hand give
me courage and make me feel less alone.
We go up the stairs in silence; I open the door
and let my father in.
“So … this is where you live?” he asks, looking
around. “And does he live here too?” he continues
without even looking at Patrick.
“Dad, please…”
“Erin,” he says calmly (my father is not the type
of man to raise his voice). “I have just returned to
you. I left you alone for a few months in safe
hands and now I find you without a house,
pregnant and tied to a penniless bum who works in
a bar?”
“The penniless bum is standing right here,”
Patrick sarcastically chimes in. “And he doesn’t
work at the pub, he owns it.”
“Oh, please excuse me,” my father intervenes.
“But you’re one of four owners, isn’t that right?”
“Five,” he corrects. “Now there are five of us.”
“Oh, even better. A dive bar in a neighborhood
of drunks and beggars, its ownership divided into
five parts of which you have one. Congratulations
