your mother at the exact same time she was running from him. First, I made a stop at Glen’s. When I saw the blood, I ran out and drove around the village, and when I found you, I immediately stopped my car and let your mother in. We drove to the hospital. The entire journey, I apologized for giving her the wrong advice instead of shelter.”
I rub my eyes, trying to keep myself together. It’s difficult, especially when I want to cry for my mom as much as for myself.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head. “She always told me she’s never been to Ireland.”
“She wanted to protect you from the truth, to keep your scars minimal—on the surface—and make sure they only marred your skin, not your heart. She didn’t want you to know who your father really was that day. And after the incident, when you were discharged and Debbie went back to New Jersey, Glen was prosecuted and jailed for a couple years. He got sober in prison, but it didn’t last quite as long as we’d hoped. The time inside changed him, though. He no longer wanted anything to do with—”
“My mother and me?” I finish for him.
I have so much hatred for Glen right now, I’m afraid I’m capable of digging up his grave just so I can kill him all over again. My poor mom. She dealt with everything all by herself.
And let me think she was the coldhearted one between them.
“Well, yes.” Father Doherty rubs his cheek, embarrassed on Glen’s behalf.
“I don’t understand any of this. Then why did my mother show me letters and gifts from him every birthday and Christmas? He always gave me the thoughtful presents. The ones that meant something.”
“It was important to your mother to make you believe you meant something to him. She took the role of the martyr, even though it killed her. She took the blame for the fact that you and your father weren’t in contact, not wanting you to feel rejected by Glen. She gathered the letters you sent him, read them, and made sure you thought he bought you all the things you wanted. But she was the one doing all the buying. And when you asked something that was specific to Ireland—a chocolate bar or Irish music—I’d buy it for you, and your mother would pay me back, despite my refusal to accept her money.”
“She wrote the letters on his behalf?” My eyes flare.
He nods solemnly.
“And the child support?”
Father Doherty shakes his head.
Jesus. Glen didn’t pay. It was just Mom and me.
He sighs. “She only wanted the best for you. She would send me your gifts, spending hundreds of dollars a year, so I could send them back to you and have it appear completely authentic.”
I remember the Irish stamps, the wrinkly boxes that put butterflies in my stomach. I’ve never wanted to hug my mother tighter. A rush of sympathy for her courses through me. She’s been through so much, and I’ve been a brat to her. The entire time, I thought she was jealous of the relationship I wanted to have with Glen.
“Is that why Kathleen hated me so much? Because I took her father, monopolized his time, then sent him to jail for a while?”
He sighs again, evidently feeling the strain of having to admit just how awful the man who left me his DNA and a mountain of daddy issues was.
“Kathleen was desperate for love. Always had been. Feeling loved was a need for her akin to breathing. Glen limited their communication to Sunday visits, and even then, he took more interest in Mal and his music than in her. But Kathleen wasn’t jealous of Mal. She’d always loved that boy, since they were wee babies. In her head, I suppose, it was the easiest to blame you. Then, when you visited here after he died, she was worried you showed up solely for the inheritance. Your mother sent me a letter informing me of your arrival, so I waited for you. When we met, I wanted to keep you as far away from Kathleen as I could. I sent you to Mal, after warning him never to tell you the truth about Glen and your scar. But then you both went to Kathleen, and she realized not only did you take her father, you were also about to take the lad she’d been in love with since birth.”