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“Slàinte mhòr!” he calls out over the laughter, and the crowd echoes him once more, glasses clinking all around.
His eyes never leave mine.
The surrounding noise fades in that shared moment, the cheers of the crowd becoming a distant hum as the weight of what he said—what he meant—takes root in my heart.
My life is infinitely better for having him in it.
As Finn steps back, his presence lingers like a calming force.
The musicians strike up a lively tune, and the air fills with the high skirl of pipes and the quick bow of fiddles. Around me, the ceilidh begins. Saoirse tugs at Callan’s arm, teasing him into dancing. Casey and Eamon exchange jests, their laughter infectious. Nearby, Dealla sneaks glances at Bran, whose nonchalant demeanour is betrayed by the way his gaze lingers on her when she isn’t looking.
In the centre of it all, my parents stand close, their love a steady anchor. They share a look, one of those quiet, intimate exchanges that speak of decades spent together. Through every trial and triumph, their love as strong as ever. The sight of them, so deeply content in each other’s presence, makes my heart swell with adoration.
The night feels like something out of a dream—alive with laughter, music, and the glow of the fire that flickers against the darkening sky. But more than anything, it’s the people, my people, that make this moment perfect.
My family. My heart. My home.
Casey claps a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie. His grin stretches ear to ear. “Come now, birthday lass, no hidin’ in the shadows tonight. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”
Before we can step forward, a tall figure blocks our path, arms outstretched as if commanding the attention of everyone gathered.
“That’s a grand idea. Come now!” My father’s voice booms, louder than necessary, echoing over the laughter and music.
“I believe the guest of honour must sing the laird of this land one song.”
“What song?” I ask, feigning ignorance, though I know exactly where this is heading.
“Tartan Troubles, my wee lass,” he announces, a playful glint in his eyes.
“Da, please don’t make me,” I protest half-heartedly.
“Ach now, who else but me brought ye into this world?” He puffs out his chest, mock pride writ large across his face, like a cockerel strutting through the yard.
“I believe Ma did most of the work. Wouldn’t you agree?” I shoot back, trying to suppress a grin.
My mother, standing behind him, lets out a gentle laugh. She gives me a conspiratorial wink, but still sides with my father. “Casey, fetch the bodhran for us, aye?”
“Me? Why do I have to do it?” Casey protests, but the laughter in his tone is unmistakable.
“Ach, jus do what yer mother says!” My father replies, hands on his hips, a playful challenge in his eyes.
“Ye’re only backin’ her because—oh, nevermind.” With a loud huff, he complies, drawing chuckles from those nearest to us.
Callan snickers from his position, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
“Ye as well, Callan!” My father husks, pointing at him with mock authority.
“Not really a two-person task…” he trails off when he catches Ma’s pointed look. Callan sighs dramatically, heading off together with Casey.
“You’re going to make me the laughingstock of the evening, Da.”
He roars, his eyes twinkling. “Nae such thing, lass! Ye’re the star of the show tonight, and it’s time ye show them what ye’re made of.”
Bran cuts in then, his grin devilish. “I would love to perform alongside you, if that’s all right, Triona.”
“You know it?” I ask, surprised.
Bran’s grin widens. “My father owns the pub in the village, and he owned one back home. Doesn’t take but a handful of times hearing it to pick it up.”
