Page 37 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Welcome home, Paddy.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I suddenly feel awkward, wishing I’d just told them of my plans because, right now, I feel like an outsider in my own family.

They clearly don’t want me here. If I don’t belong here, then where do I belong?

Nowhere.

“Yes, of course. Come in, son.” He steps aside to let me pass, then pulls me in for a hug, causing the sob I’ve been holding in these past twelve months to escape. His hold around me tightens further, but he says nothing.

I’m surrounded by the familiarity of my childhood home with its flocked wallpaper and smell of home cooking, and I’m being embraced by my da—a man who’s meant to love me no matter what. But right now, I don’t feel loved. Right now, I feel unwanted.

Like an inconvenience.

He releases me. I don’t look at him. Instead, my eyes immediately scan the shrine of photos to see if any new ones have been added. Something that could perhaps give me a visual indication of what’s changed in my absence, as something clearly has given my own family appears to no longer wish to have me around.

My gaze stops on the image of a little boy.

His hair is as black as coal, and it’s contrasted by the pale skin of the Irish. Blue eyes sparkle on his little face, and he’s holding a soft toy in his hand, his exposed chubby arm clearly displaying the O’Connell horseshoe birthmark.

I stare at the image, my brain trying to connect the dots. He can’t have been born in my absence as he’s maybe two years old. Is he the son of one of my cousins? The other wall is usually for images of our Irish kin. This spot reserved for our immediate family. Maybe it’s an old pic of one of us. That’ll be it.

“Who’s at the door, Fergal?” Ma shouts.

Da smiles at me for the first time, but it’s little salve to the feeling of rejection that now threatens to overwhelm me. I follow him into the kitchen. I can hear her muttering away to herself as we approach. I’m finally greeted by the familiar sight of her in her twinset and pearls, finished off with sheepskin slippers.

“Fergal.” She spins around, no doubt to have a go at him for not answering her straight away. The plate she was holding slips through her fingers and drops to the floor the moment she takes me in.

Old age has shrunk her further, and she has fewer stubborn auburn streaks in her hair these days, but Ma still looks the same apart from that.

“Padraig.” A whisper as she lifts her hand to her mouth in shock before exhaling. It’s the sound of acceptance. Acceptance of what? I don’t get a chance to dwell on it.

I hear the footsteps before I see the person. It’ll be the owner of the other SUV parked up outside, but then why is Ma wearing slippers if she has a guest?

“Roisin, I heard a smash. Is everything okay?”

A west coast accent. It’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking heard. It can’t be. Not here. Not now. Surely to God, I’m hearing things.

I turn around, my eyes taking in her straight up and down frame before coming to rest on her heart-shaped face with its pouty lips and eyes as green as emeralds. The perfection that The Almighty crafted just for me. Or so I’d once hoped, prayed, dreamed.

“Jaine.” I’m not sure it’s even audible, which is just as well as it would have collided with the single word she uttered. A word I thought I’d never hear again.

The best fucking word in the world.

“Irish.”

CHAPTERTWELVE

JAINE

The O’Connell Home, Darling, New York

“Irish.”

My name for him slips from my mouth, then time stands still as I take in my eldest son’s daddy. The boy I fell in love with when I was nineteen years old. The boy I’m still in love with even now. The boy who broke my heart that third time, but, in the end, he didn’t because earlier today, I found out that he never even cheated.

How do I feel about that reveal? I’m not sure. It’s only been a few hours. I’m still trying to process it.

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