I imagine a young woman who has crossed an ocean. Standing in the city, unaware that the door she was told existed, has quietly been closed.
“I had hoped,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “that you might introduce her properly.”
“I will,” he insists. “Just not today.”
I nod, though he cannot see me. “Very well.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”
“If you wish.”
There’s another pause. Less confident now. “Happy Paddy’s, Ronan.”
“And to you, Connor.”
The line goes dead. For a moment, I remain in the hallway, staring at my reflection in the darkened glass.
Demanding. It’s a convenient adjective. It absolves one of responsibility.
When I return to the kitchen, Mary reads my face immediately. “He’s not coming.”
“Crossed an ocean to be here, and yet, no.”
She wipes her hands on a towel. “Girlfriend?”
“So he says.”
She makes a sound that contains forty years of sibling commentary. “Well,” she says firmly, “then we’ll save him a plate.”
Hope, in this family, is rarely extinguished. It is simply stored.
I take a walk in the late afternoon.
The house is loud with music and debate and cousins who have long since stopped pretending to listen to one another. It is a good noise. A necessary one.
But I need air.
The city center is a riot of green and gold. Bands march past with brassy enthusiasm. Tourists hold pints aloft like trophies. Flags ripple in the wind, and somewhere near the river a man is attempting to recite Yeats over a microphone that does not cooperate.
I move through it with practiced ease.
Galway is not my daily landscape anymore, but it is imprinted in my bones. The shape of the streets, the particular slant of light on stone, the way the Atlantic asserts itself in every gust. I remain there longer than I should, watching the crowd.
There’s a particular kind of disappointment that does not announce itself with drama. It settles quietly. Like damp.
I suspect Connor is not avoiding us because his girlfriend is overwhelmed or some other thin excuse. He’s avoiding us because we do not fit the picture he’s composing for his social media presence.
I resume walking.
Near the river, a group of children attempts to coordinate a dance routine. They’re terrible at it. They are joyous regardless.
It occurs to me that I had allowed myself to believe this holiday would mark a turning point. That Connor would stand in Mary’s kitchen, shake hands properly, introduce his partner with pride.
Instead, he curates images of the perfect life. No room for my family in it.
And I, at fifty-two, find myself more affected by that than I would have expected. Not because I require his presence. But because I had hoped he might require ours.
I return to Mary’s house at dusk.