Even the ones that had begun all wrong.
And maybe... if she was brave enough...she could finally write her own.
CHAPTER31
The house creaked and moaned around her the next morning as if it, too, remembered the ghosts Aisling stirred up with every opened drawer and shifted box.
The contractors were busy banging away in the kitchen while she did her best to concentrate on what she needed to do next. Time to clean the house of ghosts and past mistakes and hope that whoever bought the place would love it the way she did already.
Was she really prepared to sell the family castle? Or would she hand it off to Séamus Gallagher? She loved every stone of it, every whispered memory in the halls—yet deep down, she wasn’t sure she could stay and live with the ghosts it carried.
She drifted from room to room like a restless spirit, not sure what she was looking for, but certain she would know when she found it. There was a piece of the puzzle she was missing, but she didn’t know what.
Some missing piece that could finally untangle the confusion, heal the misunderstandings, soothe the pain, and silence the anger.
The bedroom that had once belonged to her grandmother drew her like a magnet. She’d read her journals, but could there be more?
The air smelled of rosewater and old wood polish. Dust floated lazily through the golden afternoon light.
There was something here, she could feel it, something her grandmother had never spoken aloud. A heavy ache of loss and sorrow clung to the room, wrapping around Aisling until she could barely breathe, though she couldn’t yet understand why.
She pulled open dresser drawers and rifled through sewing notions and brittle linen handkerchiefs.
Nothing. She opened the wardrobe and shifted past old wool coats and heavy skirts that still smelled faintly of lavender.
Finally, at the bottom of a battered cedar trunk, under folded quilts, she found it.
A bundle of papers tied together with a thin blue ribbon.
And inside that bundle, a single envelope. The return address on the front made her breath catch.
Maeve O’Byrne from New York.
Her mother’s hand.
The envelope was yellowed with time. Hands trembling, Aisling slid her finger beneath the flap and carefully unfolded the letter.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as her eyes scanned the page.
Dearest Mum,
I don't know if you'll read this right away—or at all. By the time it reaches you, I may be gone. I pray you'll understand why I had to write, even if I was too much of a coward to pick up the phone or knock on your door myself.
I'm dying, Mum. The doctors say a matter of weeks, maybe less. And as I sit here, staring at the walls of my small apartment in New York, all I can think about is you.
I thought I was strong when I left Ireland. I thought I was right to cut you out after everything with Patrick. But years have shown me otherwise. You were right, Mum. You were always right. He didn’t leave his wife. He didn’t fight for me. I fought alone. I raised Aisling alone.
And she’s everything. She’s brilliant and stubborn and so full of life, it takes my breath away sometimes. You would have loved her. I should have brought her to meet you. I should have swallowed my foolish pride and come home.
But shame kept me away. Pride kept me from writing sooner. Now I fear there’s no time left. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness and hope you know that I never stopped loving you. I never stopped missing you.
Please tell Aisling about us. Tell her she comes from strong women who made mistakes but loved fiercely. Tell her I wish I'd been brave enough to heal the rift between us while I still had the chance.
Please, Mum. Don’t let pride win again. I love you. I always have.
Your daughter,
Maeve
