My Mother's Children: An Irish family secret and the scars it left behind. by Annette Sills (top rated books of all time .txt) 📕

was actually with the help of a nun from Cork that I found Eileen, my birth mother. Sister Mary Teresa was a beautiful person and she did so much for the poor communities in Boston. She died in a home for the clergy last year. It was a sad place, full of nuns and priests who’d dedicated their entire lives to the Church. Most were good people but in their final years they had to watch the scandals unfold – we had a huge paedophile problem in Boston – everything they believed in was up for scrutiny. Mary Teresa said it was like watching your house burn down slowly in front of your eyes.”

Louisa looked down at her watch.

“Sorry. Am I keeping you?” I said. I didn’t want her to go. I had so many more questions to ask.

“I’d love to stay but my husband is waiting in the car park by the church.”

We started to walk back across the lawn. The rain was letting let up and Louisa put the umbrella down.

“Just one more thing before you go, Louisa. Can I ask about your mother’s story?”

“Sure. Like your mom, she was just a girl when she had me. She and my father were childhood sweethearts. He was banished to England and Eileen never saw him again. He died a few years before I traced her. After my birth, Eileen had me then she moved to Dublin and married a man who became successful in business. She had four more children but she never told them or her husband about me. She said the scandal would destroy her family and his career. So we met in secret, in cafés and restaurants in Dublin every summer when I came on vacation. I also called her once a month. It was her dying wish that I never told any of her family. I’ve always respected her wishes.” She smiled and trailed the tip of the umbrella into the soil. “I stalk them on Facebook sometimes though.”

“God.”

“I understood why she was scared of anyone finding out about her past. She’d done well for herself. She’d dragged herself up from her life as a farm girl and she had a beautiful home in Howth and a perfect family. I certainly wasn’t about to ruin any of it for her.”

“Did you like her?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Not really.”

I laughed.

“She was kinda cold and steely. She rarely showed emotion and shrank from physical contact. That was tough. All I dreamt about since I was ten years old was hugging my birth mom. She always maintained she did the right thing giving me up. Said it was hard but she could see no way round it.”

“So sad.”

“But least we got closure. Not like your poor mom. Now that’s sad.”

Before she left, I hugged Louisa and thanked her. She gave me her contact details, saying she’d be happy to talk anytime.

I watched her walk away then I stood at the gate for a while. Staring down at the damp black soil and silver grass, I said goodbye to my brother. I told him how sorry I was for what had happened to him and how his family loved him. I looked up at the lighted upstairs window of one of the houses that overlooked the site. A child was climbing up the ladder of a bunk bed, his mother standing nearby. She turned and said something to him then she stepped towards the window and pulled the curtains shut.

“Goodnight, sweet Donal,” I said, a lump congealing in my throat.

Chapter 18

I woke the next day to the sound of gulls circling outside my window and waves crashing on the rocks below.

I slid out of bed, the pain of my discovery pressing down on me. I had already lost one brother, now hope had died and I’d lost another. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that the shock of finding out her baby had died in the home might have killed Tess. Being forced to give him up, spending her life never knowing what happened to him then finding out he’d suffered neglect and abuse in his short life. Only the strongest of hearts could survive that. Why had she never told me any of it? The thought that she’d suffered alone was unbearable. It stabbed my own heart over and over.

Julia had left me a key under the mat the day before. She was in Belfast at the christening of one of the grandchildren and was due back late afternoon. I sat on the bed and glanced over at the window. I knew there was one thing that might lift my mood. So I got up, opened the curtains and took in the view.

Julia’s stone farmhouse was nestled in the shadow of Croagh Patrick with the Nephin Mountains curving in the distance. It rested on the bend of a winding road overlooking Clew Bay. The sea below was dotted with small islands. Legend had it there were three hundred and sixty-five – one for every day of the year. John Lennon owned one. The rains of yesterday had cleansed the landscape. It was bright and breezy and white puffs of cloud slid across an azure sky. The islands looked like emeralds scattered on turquoise silk. I stood for some time and took in the glorious colours. Maybe there was a God after all.

Julia’s was the only old house on the road. All the others were newly built mansions with glass box extensions, extravagant pillars and gravelled drives. Most were empty holiday homes owned by Americans or Germans and many were up for sale. Julia longed for families to move into the road again to bring life back to the community. A cyclist passed on the road below. It was the perfect day for a bike ride and I knew exactly where I was going to go. If I got a move on, I’d be back before Julia returned in the