“What is it?” She’s already reaching for the phone. “Who—”
Then she sees the screen. Her hand flies to her chest again. The same gesture as when she walked through the door, but different now—softer, younger somehow. Her mouth opens and nothing comes out.
“It’s Eileen,” Dad says, unnecessarily. “She wanted to call before the party got too crazy.”
“Eileen!” Mom’s voice breaks on the syllable. “Oh my god.”
She answers the FaceTime call and there she is. Eileen. Silver hair braided back from her face, the same silver it’s been since I was a kid, the same neat, practical braid she’s probably worn every day for the last forty years. Her face fills the screen, creased and kind and so familiar it makes my chest ache.
“Hello,mo stór,” she says, and her Irish accent wraps around the words like wool.
“It’s—Eileen, it must be, what, one in the morning there?”
“Half one. And it’s never too late for you.” Her eyes crinkle. “Now let me look at you. Let me see if all this fuss is worth it.”
Mom laughs, wet and wobbly, and holds the phone closer to her face. “There’s not even that much fuss.”
“The balloons on the mantelpiece would disagree with you, love.”
“How do you know about the balloons?”
“Your husband called me three days ago. Very thorough man, your Leo. Told me everything.” Eileen’s gaze shifts. “Hello, Leo. You’re looking well.”
Dad waves, caught. “Hi, Eileen. Sorry about the timing.”
“Don’t be daft. I’d have stayed up till four if that’s what it took.” Her eyes find me next. “And is that wee Emma beside you? Come here, let me see you properly.”
I lean into frame. “Hi, Eileen.”
“Oh, look at you! All grown up and beautiful. You have your mother’s eyes.”
She means Annie. She always means Annie.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Are they feeding you over there? You look thin.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because everyone with eyes can see it.” But she’s smiling. “I’m only teasing. You look wonderful, pet. They both do.”
Mom takes the phone and stalks off toward the kitchen, already talking a mile a minute, her free hand gesturing. But I catch her face as she turns away. Tears are streaming down her cheeks and she has a particular smile, one that makes her look like the girl she must have been before any of us knew her.
Mom calls her once a month, without fail. We used to time our summer trips to Ireland around her birthday, and then just because. I have memories of Eileen’s small house in Galway, the kettle always on, the garden overgrown. There was always too much rain, not enough time. I remember helping her digpotatoes when I was eight, my hands black with soil, her patient voice guiding me. I remember her teaching me to knit and never once getting frustrated when I dropped stitches.
She raised Mom. Not in the legal sense, not on paper. But in every way that matters, she raised her. And because she did, Mom became who she is. Patient. Kind. Steady. The kind of mother who shows up, every day, without being asked.
Eileen paved the road and Annie walked it. And now I’m standing at the beginning of that same road, trying to figure out how to walk it myself.
I have Eileen to thank for that. For all of it.
A hand slides around my waist, warm and familiar. Lips press to my forehead.
I look up and Brandon is there. His hair still damp from the shower he must have taken after his last appointment, glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of the room. He smells like soap and coffee.
“Sorry I’m late,” he murmurs against my skin. “My three o’clock ran long and then the four o’clock showed up early and I couldn’t—”
“It’s okay.” I rise on my toes and kiss him, quick and soft. “You’re here now.”
