I check my phone again. No new messages.
He said he was flying in yesterday. He said he had booked a hotel in the city. He said he would come by after time with his girlfriend.
“I’d like you to meet her,” he said. There was a weight to that request. When one invites a partner to meet the Callahans, one is not being casual. Though, he may not realize that.
Inside the house, someone begins to sing. A low, familiar tune that builds into something raucous within seconds.
I allow myself a small, unreasonable hope. Perhaps this is the year Connor steps into the fold.
The wind sharpens. My phone remains silent.
By midday, the house is full.
Children streak past with green-painted cheeks. My brother Liam argues loudly about rugby statistics with an uncle who has not updated his information since 1998. Mary’s kitchen smells of soda bread and lamb stew, and the windows fog from heat and breath and too many bodies in one place.
This is how we gather. Not elegantly. Not quietly. My family enjoys the stereotypes of Ireland as much as any of us do, but I think Mary revels in them.
I take up a position near the fireplace, fielding questions about Boston, about the hospital, about whether I will ever consider coming home for good to take over our family’s business. We own one of the world’s largest consumer laboratory chains. Mary is our CFO, Liam is the CEO. And both are looking to retire early.
Home is a complicated word when one has built a life elsewhere. I answer politely. I always do. One day, I might return. For now, my life is in Boston.
Between conversations, I check my phone. At half past one, it finally vibrates. I step into the hallway before answering.
“Connor.”
“Hey, Ronan.” Not Dad. Never Dad.
I’d never ask it of him, but one day, I’d like to hear it out of him. “You’ve arrived safely?”
“Yeah, yeah. Galway’s insane right now. It’s packed.”
“It often is on this particular week.”
He laughs. There’s noise behind him—music, shouting, the hollow echo of a pub. “I’m really sorry,” he says, and the apology comes too quickly. “My girlfriend’s kind of… high-maintenance about the whole thing.”
I go very still. “High-maintenance.”
“Yeah, she’s just been wanting to do all the tourist stuff. Photos, parades, the works. And she’s not super into, you know, big family chaos.”
I consider my next words carefully. “She was invited,” I say evenly.
“Yeah, I know. I just—” He exhales. “It’s a lot. I don’t want her overwhelmed.”
“And what do you want?”
A pause. “I mean, I want to do this right. Another time.”
Another time. The phrase lands like a deferral notice.
“We have prepared for you,” I tell him, because it’s the truth. Mary made an extra loaf. Liam bought better whiskey thanusual. Even our mother, at eighty-one, insisted on wearing the emerald brooch she reserves for occasions of importance.
“I know,” he says quickly. “And I appreciate that. I just think today’s not the vibe.”
The vibe. “I see.”
“You get it, right? I’ve got to balance things. She’s demanding, and I don’t want drama.”
Demanding.
