The windows glow amber against the deepening blue of evening. Inside, the celebration has shifted from frenetic to intimate. The older relatives sit in a loose circle near the fire. The younger ones argue about music in the corner.
My mother occupies her usual chair, back straight despite her years. “Well?”
“He sends his regards.”
“And himself?”
“Not today.”
She studies me for a long moment. “He was always ambitious,” she says finally. “Ambition is not a sin.”
“No.”
“But it can make a man forget what feeds him.”
I sit opposite her. “He claims his girlfriend is overwhelmed.”
My mother’s mouth tightens. “Then he should have prepared her.” There is no malice in her tone. Only fact. “Do you think he will come tomorrow?”
“I cannot say.”
She nods once, accepting uncertainty as she has accepted many things in her life.
Mary brings me a glass of whiskey and presses it into my hand. “To nephews who take the long road.”
I allow myself a faint smile. “To sons who eventually arrive.”
The music shifts again—someone begins a slow ballad. Conversations soften.
If Connor wishes to build a life that excludes us, that is his prerogative. But I will not be the man who withdraws in response. Hope is not naivety.
It is enduring love.
I take out my phone and compose a message.Dinner tomorrow at one. Just us, if you prefer. I would like to hear about your work. And meet her properly.
I hesitate before pressing send. Then I do. The reply comes twenty minutes later.
Tomorrow might be tough. We’re heading back early. Crazy schedule. Rain check?
Rain check. I close my eyes briefly.Very well. Safe travels.
There is no response.
By the time the evening winds down, the house smells of extinguished candles and spilled stout. One by one, relatives gather coats and children and leftover containers. Promises are made about summer visits. Arguments are paused, not concluded.
I help Mary stack plates in the kitchen. “He’ll circle back,” she says quietly.
“He may.”
“You sound doubtful.”
I merely shrug. I step outside once more before leaving for my hotel.
The night is colder now. The revelry has thinned to smaller clusters of laughter and song. Galway exhales after a day of performance.
Connor boards a plane tomorrow. Perhaps he’s already drafting a caption about growth or momentum.Gotta keep moving, or some such.
I think of the young woman beside him, who may or may not understand why she was kept at arm’s length from a family that would have welcomed her.
