Page 127 of Wistful Whispers
Marcella crosses the room, acutely aware of our son getting fussy. She leans over the back of the couch and brushes her lips over Elias’s head. “I’m going to feed him before dinner.”
“Want me to help?” I ask as I hand him up to her.
She shakes her head. “Nah, we’ve got a system.”
Of course they do.
I watch her leave the room, soft and sure, Elias pressed to her shoulder. The others barely notice her departure, already rolling into a debate over which family member first tried to mix cinnamon into Ma’s roast potatoes. (It was Padraig. It was definitely Padraig.)
The music’s low in the background, something jazzy and instrumental, loud enough to catch when the voices dip. The table’s already set—Ma’s best white tablecloth, Rosa’s insistence on proper chargers. It’s longer than usual this year. Two tables pushed together. Lucas brought folding chairs from the restaurant. There’s a bench against the far wall with a pillow from the living room thrown on top. It works.
Ma appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Dinner’s ready.”
People move. Voices rise. The familiar swell of chairs scraping and silverware shifting and holiday dinner settling into motion. The dining room hums like a living thing.
Rosa and Ma flow in and out of the kitchen, each trip bringing a new wave of color, scent, and barely disguised competitiveness. There’s a carved lamb roast with a glistening crust, flanked by a golden-crackled leg ofjamón ibérico.
Saffron rice glows under curls of seared lemon, tucked beside bowls of garlicky gambas and slow-roastedpatatas bravas. A massive paella pan holds pride of place, scattered with mussels and bright-red peppers.
Next to it, Ma’s creamycolcannonis mounded high beside steaming trays of roasted parsnips and honeyed carrots with fresh thyme. There’s brown bread still warm from the oven, sliced thick and set out with curls of Kerrygold butter, and a dish of cranberry-orange compote she insists “rounds things out.”
Croquetas—crispy, molten, perfect—are lined up like soldiers next to a basket of sausage rolls wrapped in puff pastry so flaky the edges shatter when you breathe near them.
Dishes fill the table. Hands pass plates. Laughter starts to echo over the clatter of silverware. Marcella reenters as everyone begins to sit, Elias already dozing again, seemingly completely uninterested in the fanfare.
She settles beside me, Elias tucked snug in his wrap against her chest, his tiny hand peeking out near her collarbone. She exhales as she eases into the chair, eyes scanning the table, already full of conversation.
“You made me a plate?” She spots it in front of her.
“Of course.” I slide it closer. “You didn’t think I’d let you go hungry, did you?”
Her lips curve. “How very husbandly of you.”
“Careful.” I smirk. “I might start setting expectations.”
She takes a bite, then rests her elbow on the table and leans in slightly, voice low, meant only for me.
“This is good,” she says. “All of it.”
“Yeah.” I rest my hand on her thigh under the table. “It really is.”
It takes a while to settle—like it always does when this many people are packed around one table. Someone forgets their drink, someone else needs a spoon, a napkin falls, a chair creaks. It’s all part of the music.
I glance around the table—Connor and Ronni wrangling their three kids, Lucas and Brennan in deep debate about AI, Rafael and my da are deep into a conversation about woodworking, something about restoring an old wine rack. Liam corrects Padraig’s retelling of how their band almost opened for U2. Astrid and Ivy lament not being able to eat sushi. Cillian sits listening, quietly content, next to his wife.
Ma and Rosa watch everything. Not judging—keeping track. Like the whole thing only works because they see all the pieces and let them move.
I catch Marcella watching, too. The way her eyes scan the table, her fingers gently brushing the edge of her water glass, Elias’s sleepy weight resting on her shoulder. Her father laughs at something Ma says, and Lucas leans in to correct whatever it was.
She glows.
Not in a glowy-mom way people always reduce her to now. In the way she’s always glowed when she’s right where she’s supposed to be—even if it took her longer to believe the space existed.
“You did this, you know.” She leans toward me.
I tilt my head. “Did what?”
“This.” She gestures loosely around the table. “You made this life real for me. If you’d never convinced me to come back to the abandoned hospital room…”
