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“I wanted to give ye something before the day gets away from us,” she breathes, her tone uncharacteristically hesitant.

As I examine her face, I notice the lines of worry and the weariness that seem to consume her; something I noticed days ago. Today, a vulnerability clings to her movements, deeper than is even recognisable to many.

“I dinnae ken if ye’ll like it,” she says, hands toying with the edges of linen.

“Ma, you didn’t have to get me—”

“Hush,” she interrupts. “I’ll admit I’ve been hard on ye, and maybe I huv’nae always been fair. I’m no’ too proud to admit it now. I want there to be peace between us.” She inhales slowly, as if her words cut into her.

“I fear for ye—for the world I’ll leave ye in when I’m gone from it. But not for what ye’re lackin’, or things unknown to ye. I fear what the world will demand o’ ye, and I ken it’s unfair to place such a burden upon yer shoulders. I pushed things on ye thinkin’ I kent what was best. I’ve pushed people on ye because I’ve thought the connection might be of great benefit…”

Tension unwinds thread by thread beneath the weight of her honesty.

“You speak as if you plan to leave tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.

She shakes her head resolutely, determined to keep herself composed. “Nae, love, jus the ramblin’ thoughts of a mother who longs for a brighter dawn for her daughter. I wish for a world where the path ye’ll traverse be less replete wi’ uncertainty, where each step is easier to navigate than the century that came before.”

She motions for me to follow her inside. I move without question, leaving the sounds of the courtyard, the feel of the May breeze against my skin, and the calming smell of the ocean behind.

We settle into a quiet corner, and I place my hand atop hers, a silent reassurance.

“Time has flown,” she murmurs. “One day yer da and I are rocking ye to sleep, and now yer nineteenth year has come. Time isnae kind to us—we dinnae get nearly enough of it.”

When she looks at me, her green and brown hued irises are clouded with emotion. “I’ve told ye stories since you were little. Do ye remember yer favourite?”

“As if I could ever forget an Ellen Sinclair retelling.” I tease, earning a small smile.

“There were parts I left out. The parts about aimless sacrifice—decidin’ without consulting others. I know we speak of Ériu’s strength… but she acted in isolation, and it cost her.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that it’s just a story.”

“Even the tallest tales are rooted in truth. The meaning and morals stick around. We may grow in age, but thousands of years later, the fact remains that everyone needs someone to lean on.”

She meets my eyes, voice shaking with emotion. “There will come a day when ye’ll have to make choices that will feel impossible. Not out of fear or fate bidden obligation, but because of those impacted if ye refuse. I never thought I’d be an overbearing mess, not until I had ye, but I’ve myself had to make some of those choices. Motherhood turned me into a bit of a madwoman.” We chuckle in unison at that.

She places her hand on my cheek, and a tear rolls from her eyes as she stares into mine. “I want ye to trust yerself. I’ve spent every second since the moment I first saw ye draw breath, believin’ in ye. Truly. I regret not showin’ ye more.”

I squeeze her hand in mine. “Ma… you’ve shown me plenty.”

She smiles, though it trembles at the corners.

Then she presses the bundle into my hands, and I unwrap it to reveal the Sinclair Clan tartan—made of deep blue, green, and yellow—beautifully woven and edged with fine embroidery.

“I made this for ye,” she whispers. “To keep ye bundled in the cold, and when ye’re away from home, to remind ye, no matter where ye are or who ye’re with, that ye’ll always have a home. Ye’ll always be loved, and despite the distance between us, ye’ll always have me.”

My hands tremble as I run my fingers over the fabric. The weight of her love is palpable in every stitch.

“I dinnae ken what I did in this life to deserve ye as a daughter.” She admits.

“I love you, Ma. Even when I push back out of pure stubbornness. I’m blessed to have such love.”

She pulls me into an embrace. “Ye’ve done enough in every life to be loved a thousand times over.”

She stands, pulling me with her. She carefully drapes the tonnag around my shoulders. Its comforting weight feels like a hug that will stay with me wherever I go.

“Happy day o’ birth, mo nighean bheag.”

The early night air outside the gallery doors carries a lingering chill, just enough to make my new tonnag feel welcome on my shoulders. Its significance deepens as I take in how my family and friends have transformed the courtyard for this night.