Page 91 of Inheriting an Irish Groom
The silence stretched between them, a gaping wound neither of them could cross.
“It wasn’t until she sent me the letter after she died. Hell, I would have been there when she was sick. I so wanted to see her again, but then she was gone," he said finally, voice breaking.
Aisling blinked rapidly, willing the tears back.
"And even then," she said, "you stayed away."
"I tried," he rasped. "God, Aisling, I tried to find the courage to come to you. But you were already grown. Already living your life. And I didn’t know if I had the right to barge into it."
She shook her head slowly. "You had every right. You were my father."
He looked gutted. Absolutely gutted.
Her throat felt raw, scraped from the inside out. "But you let me go on thinking I had no one."
"I was wrong," he said, voice thick. "I was so wrong."
The words hung there, heavy and bruised.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The only sound was the distant chirp of birds and the soft, gentle sound of rain. The workers were gone for the day, their work done.
Finally, Aisling whispered, “You could have kept hiding by ignoring my email. Why did you decide to come forward? To visit me?”
Was he here to really be a part of her life or just to ease his conscience?
“I realized I'd been given a second chance I didn't deserve, but I was damn well going to take it if you'd let me."
Tears welled up, and this time she let them fall.
“I’m trying to forgive you," she said honestly, voice shaking.
"I don’t expect you to," he said, stepping closer but not touching her. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. I’ll stay here. However long it takes. I want to be in your life. To be your father.”
Her chest cracked wide open at that. The sheer, aching truth of it.
He wasn’t asking her to pretend the past hadn’t happened. He wasn’t demanding her love or forgiveness.
He was just... sitting there. Waiting. Willing to take her anger, her hurt, her hope.
Tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked.
Patrick reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. It was old and worn around the edges. Maeve, young and laughing, with a head full of wild curls, stood on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. His arm was around her. They both looked so impossibly happy.
"I never stopped loving her," he said, voice breaking.
Aisling clutched the photo to her chest.
For a moment, just a moment, she let herself believe. Believe in second chances. Believe that maybe love, broken and battered as it was, could still find its way through the wreckage.
She met his gaze, green eyes to green.
"You want to stay?" she whispered.
He nodded, throat working. "If you’ll let me.”
He rose from the couch and met her halfway.
