Page 82 of Wistful Whispers

Padraig lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment. Liam looks like he wants to argue. He doesn’t.

Seamus, watches quietly—I can tell he’s listening. Maybe more than anyone.

Later, I find myself alone in the kitchen, stacking plates into the dishwasher despite Maureen’s insistence I shouldn’t.

She joins me and grabs a tub of whipped cream from the fridge and begins dolloping it on individual servings of homemade brownies. “So. You like my son.”

It’s not a question.

“I really do.” I nod, unsure what my face is doing.

To my surprise, she doesn’t bring up our age difference. “He’s different since Miranda. More careful. More focused. He hasn’t admitted it but I think he’s questioning it all.”

“Because of the lawsuit?” This information is news to me.

“Yes. He chose neurosurgery for a reason.” She puts the leftover cream back in the cooler. “He’s been singularly focused for years and now his future is a bit uncertain.”

I grip the edge of the counter, the ceramic edge cool and solid under my palm. “He hasn’t mentioned any of this to me.”

Maureen exhales gently as she wipes her hands on a towel. “He probably wouldn’t. Not until he’s sorted it through himself. Seamus is consistent. Always has been. He digs in deep. Commits like it’s a sacred vow—even when the ground shifts under him.”

A chill moves down my spine. Suddenly I feel a flicker of panic. What if Seamus wakes up someday and realizes this—me—isn’t what he truly wants? I don’t want to be something he stays in out of duty. I want to be chosen. Willingly. Fully.

God, I’m selfish. What if he’s struggling with something else?

Maureen doesn’t notice the internal war I’m fighting. Or maybe she does and she’s too gracious to call it out. She turns back to the tray of dessert and speaks quietly, more to the memory than the moment. “This Miranda situation. It shook him to the core. Not because he’s lost his love for medicine, it’s because he saw what happens when his mentor’s ego trumped empathy. It’s not who my Seamus is.”

I nod because I’m unable to speak.

“He’s always wanted to help people,” she continues. “I think maybehowhe wants to help might be shifting.”

For a second, I wonder how much of this he’s confided in her. Or, how much she’s intuited from watching him. Knowing him.

It occurs to me how wrong I was earlier.

It’s clear his mother sees him.Reallysees him. Regardless of how quiet he is around his boisterous family. How easily he fades into the background and lets them shine.

“I know it’s early days with the two of you.” She gently touches my hand. “I’d never try to put pressure on your relationship. If he means anything to you—please let him be who he is, Marcella. Not who he thinks he’s supposed to be. Or who he thinksyouwant him to be. He doesn’t need a mother. He needs a partner.”

Ah. There it is. She’s addressed our age gap in the most thoughtful way.

What Maureen wants for Seamus is all I’ve ever wanted, too. I don’t want to hold my years of experience over his head. He’s smart. Strong. Capable. I value his insights tremendously.

We’re already on the way to being partners.

Somehow, without fanfare or grand gestures, Seamus has shown this level of respect to me. With words. Behavior. Sweet gestures. How he makes love to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt seen. Desired.

Enough.

Not for what I do or what I’ve achieved—but for who I am.

I’ve taken his gift—greedily and gratefully.

Now, I want to give it back to him. Seamus shouldn’t always have to be the steady one. The sure one. He deserves reassurance too. A place to land. Someone who sees him as the wonderful man he is.

I realize in this moment—our age difference meansnothing.

When I return to the living room, Seamus is cuddling Teagan. Her tiny head is nestled against his shoulder as his palm cradles her back. He’s bouncing slightly, soothing her without even thinking about it.

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