Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
T he next afternoon, Aisling opened the front door slowly, her heart hammering in her chest.
Patrick Wright stood just beyond the threshold, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his worn jacket, his silver hair curling slightly at the edges from the damp Irish air. His eyes, the same deep green she saw every morning in the mirror, lifted to hers, uncertain. Hopeful.
"May I come in?" he asked, voice rough.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
She could slam the door.
She could scream.
She could crumple into a heap at his feet.
Instead, she stepped aside.
“Come in,” she said, knowing they needed to talk.
Wordlessly, he entered, glancing around the old stone house like a man stepping into a cathedral. His eyes lingered on the dusty portraits, the cracked tile floor, the fire that had long gone out in the hearth.
He turned back to her.
"You look just like her," he said softly.
Aisling stiffened. “Maybe. But you weren’t there to watch her grow older. To see her suffer.”
The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.
She was tired of softening herself for men who had abandoned her.
Patrick winced but nodded. "You’re right.”
His mouth worked for a moment, searching for the right beginning. “Can we sit and talk? Again, I didn’t know about you," he said finally. “Not then. Not when you were born."
Aisling's laugh was sharp and bitter. "How convenient."
"And when she came to New York?" Aisling asked, her voice low and trembling. "When she found you? You couldn’t see that she was pregnant?”
He swallowed hard. “No. She didn't say anything about a baby. She was furious. Hurt. Proud. And I—I was a coward. I let her walk away."
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.
Slowly, shakily, she stepped forward and closed the distance between them.
"I don’t know how to do this," she said, voice raw.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "Together. One step at a time.”
Aisling pressed her forehead against his chest, her hands curling into the fabric of his jacket, and breathed deeply of his smell. For the first time in her life, she let herself be held by her father.
Not perfectly. Not without pain.
But maybe, just maybe, with a little hope.
An hour later, the fire had long gone cold, but Patrick knelt in front of it like it was a sacred task, stacking kindling and logs with careful precision.
Aisling stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, unsure what to do with her hands. Her heart was still rattling from everything that had just happened. She clutched the old photograph to her chest, feeling the edges bite into her palms.
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Tea?"
She almost laughed. Was there anything more Irish than trying to fix a shattered lifetime with a strong cup of tea?
"Sure," she said, her voice rough.
By the time she returned with two chipped mugs and the battered old teapot—one of Noreen’s favorites—the fire was crackling and throwing soft light into the room. The stone walls seemed less cold. Less lonely.
Patrick accepted the mug she handed him with both hands as if it were something precious.
For a while, they just sat on opposite sides of the hearth, sipping in silence.
Aisling finally broke it. Because if they were going to do this, really do it, then she wasn’t going to pretend it was easy.
"You missed a lot," she said quietly, staring into the flames.
"I know," he replied, just as softly. "And I regret every second of it."
She traced her finger around the rim of her mug. "I grew up believing I wasn't wanted. Not by my mother’s family. Not by any father. And sometimes not even by my mother herself."
Patrick closed his eyes for a moment as if the truth hurt to hear.
"I would have wanted you," he said. "God, Aisling, if I'd known?—"
"You didn’t." Her voice cracked. "And you can’t go back."
He nodded grimly. "But I can go forward. If you'll let me."
She looked at him then, really looked. At the lines etched into his face. At the eyes so much like her own. At the regret he wasn’t even trying to hide.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet," she said. "But... I want to try."
Hope flared in his eyes, raw and bright. It almost undid her.
"I want to know everything," she said, sitting up straighter. "I want the real story. Not the sanitized version."
"You deserve nothing less," Patrick said, setting his mug down carefully.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
"When I met your mother, I was drowning," he said. "My marriage was falling apart. I felt like I was failing everyone, my wife, my students, my own damn self. I’d escaped to Dublin to save myself.”
He smiled a little sadly. "Maeve was like a lightning bolt. She challenged me. She made me feel alive again. Not just admired, not just tolerated, but seen."
Tears pricked at Aisling’s eyes.
"I fell hard and fast," he admitted. "But I was a coward. When Carolyn told me she was pregnant again...I couldn't walk away. I told myself I was doing the right thing and that my family needed me. That Maeve would be fine without me.”
"And she wasn't fine. She worked so hard,” Aisling whispered.
He bowed his head. "I know."
The fire popped sharply, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney.
"I thought she'd move on," he said, voice raw. "Find someone else. Have a happy life. I thought...I thought leaving was a kindness."
"You shattered her," Aisling said, no longer needing to pull her punches. "You left her to pick up the pieces."
"I know," he said again, a broken echo. “And in New York City, not Ireland. All those years, she was just down the road from me.”
They sat there, the old house groaning quietly around them, carrying the weight of ghosts and grief.
"But you're here now," Aisling said at last, almost to herself.
"I want to be," Patrick said.
She hesitated. The easy thing would be to stay angry. To shut the door and lock it tight.
But Maeve O’Byrne had spent her life building walls to protect her broken heart. And where had it left her? Alone. Estranged. Full of regrets.
Aisling wasn’t going to live like that. Not anymore. Last night, she’d made the decision never to let pain and bitterness keep her from the important people in her life. Today, she had to act on that decision.
"I want to meet my brothers," she said suddenly, surprising even herself.
Patrick's head jerked up. "You do?"
"If I'm going to do this," she said, voice trembling but firm, "I want to know the whole story. All of it. Not just bits and pieces. They are a part of the story.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'll tell them. Carefully. I need time."
She nodded. "I can give you that."
His shoulders sagged like the weight of a lifetime had just slipped partially off his back.
"And I’m not promising," she said, "that I’ll be ready for Christmas dinners and family photos. But I’m willing to take it slow.”
His laugh was low and grateful. "I'll take whatever you’re willing to give."
They sipped their tea in the firelight. The old hurts were still there, raw and gaping. But maybe there was room now for something else. Something new.
"You’re staying in town?" she asked.
He nodded. "Rented a cottage down the lane. Thought I’d be close by. Just... not in your face."
Her mouth twitched. "Probably smart."
He grinned, and for the first time, she saw him, not the father she’d missed. Not the ghost she’d chased. Just a man trying, clumsy and real.
"Will you come to Sunday dinner next week?" he asked. "Just us. No pressure."
Aisling hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Good," he said, visibly relieved. "And... Aisling?"
"Yeah?"
"I’m proud of you," he said fiercely. "I was proud even before I knew you were mine. And now?—"
He broke off, shaking his head like the words were too big to fit.
She blinked hard against the sudden sting in her eyes. "I’ll see you next Sunday," she said, voice thick.
He stood, hesitated, then reached out.
For a moment she froze, then stepped into his hug.
His arms wrapped around her tightly, no hesitation, no half-measures. And for the first time in her life, Aisling felt like maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.
When he pulled back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, "Thank you for giving me this chance."
And then he was gone, stepping out into the evening mist, leaving Aisling standing in the flickering firelight, clutching her tea, her heart aching, but also, strangely, hopeful.