“Oh, Sheena,” she says softly. “Don’t cry, lass. It’ll be alright.”
But she doesn’t know why I’m crying.
“I hated you, though. And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”
She blinks in surprise and Megan places her cup on the table, then stills.
I tell her everything. How I was told Seamus McCarthy was to blame for my father’s death, and how I set out to right the wrongs done to me in pursuit of the wrong family. How I nursed my hatred and let it fester until I wanted every one of the McCarthys to pay.
“All of you,” I say, crying freely now, not even bothering to check my tears. “I hated all of you and wanted you all to suffer for what I thought he did.”
Megan lifts her cup of tea and takes a long pull before she responds with a roll of her eyes. “Well,” she finally says. “They aren’t exactly saints, now, are they?”
And for some reason, her response amuses me. I can’t contain the maniacal laugh that bubbles up inside me. I place my mug down and cover my mouth. My whole body shakes with laughter.
“Mother of God, child, you’ve lost yer mind, haven’t you?” Maeve says, rubbing her hand across my back, but Megan loves any chance to laugh, so she quickly joins in. We silently snicker until finally Maeve laughs, too, and the three of us silently laugh and cry until Maeve gets up, walks to a sideboard, unlocks it and withdraws a bottle of whiskey. She comes back to us and douses each of our mugs.
“Jesus, have a drink, girls,” she mutters, which makes me and Megan laugh even harder. And somehow, right then, with the dim light above us and the soft sounds of gentle snores coming from the other room, on the night I lost my mother, I found a friend. Megan reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“No one blames you now, Sheena. Won’t say you were anyone’s favorite for a while, I won’t lie. But something tells me that cousin of mine would rather cut off his right bollox than see you come to harm.”
“Megan,” Maeve hisses. “He’s my son.”
“Aye, and he’s got a pair like the rest, doesn’t he, now?”
Maeve rolls her eyes, sighs, and sits back down next to us. But instead of drinking her tea, she lifts the slim bottle of amber whiskey to her lips and swigs straight from the bottle. She doesn’t even wince, but chugs the fiery liquid straight, plunks it back down on the table, and sighs with satisfaction.
“Megan’s right,” Maeve says. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I’d have hated me, too, if I thought what you did.”
I shake my head. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, though.”
She leans in and smiles. The woman’s old enough to be my mother, dressed in a simple pair of faded trousers and a slim-fitting white tee, but right then, I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.
“There’s something I’ve learned, having lived my entire life surrounded by these men,” she says. “You can’t hold onto anger, Sheena. You have to forgive. If you don’t, it eats you up inside like acid, burning away the good bits until there’s nothing left but rot. It isn’t your enemies that bear the brunt of your anger. It’s you.”
I look away, because I have to think about this. A part of me knows she’s right, because I’ve experienced just this. My anger and hatred didn’t bring justice to those I thought wronged me. Instead, it left me bitter. It ate me up inside to the point where I could barely bring myself to even think of the wellbeing of another.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “I felt that. I did.”
She nods. “I know you did. That kind of hatred can’t be hidden. But the vengeance in your eyes, lass… it’s gone now. Those children in the other room have given you so much, haven’t they? If not for them, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”
I nod with a sigh. “Aye.”
Megan yawns wildly. “I wish I could stay up, but I’ve got a shift at the hospital in the morning and need to get some rest. Will you be here tomorrow, Sheena?”
I answer her honestly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, if I know my cousin, he’ll reach out to me for help moving, so I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” She leans in and kisses my cheek before turning to leave. A lump rises in my throat again.
Maeve sees her to the door, then comes back to me. Wordlessly, she bends down, and wraps her arms around me. She holds me, and the damn tears I fought back surface again. I close my eyes to them, grateful she doesn’t expect me to talk. Nolan’s held me, and the children have embraced me, too. But I haven’t had this, the touch of a mother, in so long I forgot what it’s like.