Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Hello, I’m Judy, and this is Lola. We’re from child and family services,” the woman said, not unkindly. “We’ve gotten a couple of calls, and I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk with us?”
CHAPTER 2
Aoife
The kids were sitting around Saoirse’s school laptop, wringing every last minute of time they had before she had to return it on the last day of school when my mom finally showed up. She was half drunk and wearing the same clothes I’d seen her leave the house in four days before. She also looked half dead, her eyes bloodshot and her skin gray. The back of her hair was matted, and she had scratches down her arms that I was willing to bet she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten.
I’d learned to say hello and leave her alone when she came home like that. She wasn’t up for company, she didn’t give a shit what she’d missed while she was gone, and trying to talk to her was a fruitless and frustrating endeavor.
I forgot all of that when she walked through the front door.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Well, hello to you, too,” she snapped, shaking her head.
“Mammy!” Aisling yelled, scrambling off the couch to run at our mother.
My stomach twisted with a mixture of sadness and worry as she caught Mom around the waist, squeezing her tight.
“Hi, my baby,” my mom crooned.
That tone used to make me nostalgic, now it just makes me angry.
“I’m waiting,” I said, ignoring the way Aisling glared at me.
“Good for you,” Mom scoffed. “I’m starving. We got anything to eat?”
“Kitchen’s closed,” Cian said tightly, stomping down the stairs. “Why don’t you go out and pick somethin’ up? While you’re at it, grab somethin’ for your kids, too.”
“Cian,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Getting a little big for your britches there, son,” Mom replied, staring him down.
“Funny you should say that,” Cian snapped back. “Since I’ve got no fuckin’ jeans that fit. You gonna help out with that, or leave it to Aoife to take care of it like everythin’ else?”
I fucking knew he didn’t all of a sudden decide shorts were his favorite thing to wear.
“You’re not helping,” I told Cian firmly, waiting until he looked at me to widen my eyes at him. “Can you take the kids upstairs and make sure they don’t eavesdrop? I need to talk to Mom.”
“Mom,” she huffed.
“Fine,” Cian grumbled.
I turned back to Mom as Cian threw Aisling over his shoulder, making her laugh and look back at Mom worriedly. “What?” I ground out. “What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Since when do you call me Mom?” She strode toward the kitchen.
“Can we cut through the bullshit?” I asked in frustration, following her.
She knew exactly when we’d stopped calling her mam and started calling her mom—about six months after Dad died and we realized that for all intents and purposes, she was gone, too. Using the word Mam like Dad used to had seemed almost like an endearment—one she no longer deserved. She was no longer that person to us and pretending was useless. Only Aisling used it anymore, and only when she was emotional.
“What’s your problem?” she asked, rummaging through the fridge. “Jesus, haven’t you been shopping lately?”
The sound of feet on the stairs had gone quiet, but I still waited a minute longer to make sure Cian had gotten them away from the top of the stairs before I spoke.
“Child services was here yesterday,” I said quietly, crossing my arms over my chest.
“And?” She was still rummaging around for food.
“And they want to talk to you.”
“You told them I wasn’t here, right?” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “There you go.”
“They’re coming back,” I spat.
“So, tell them I’m not here. Tell ’em I’m at work.”
“Jesus Christ,” I blurted, throwing my hands in the air. “Could you stop for half a second? I’m trying to talk to you!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” She spun on me. “You might be eighteen, but I’m still your mother!”
“Oh, you noticed that I turned eighteen?” I asked sarcastically. “Good to know.”
“Your father would—” She took a step toward me.
This was why I didn’t try to talk to her. It was useless. She was saying words and replying, but nothing she said was ever even halfway helpful.
I was so done. So frustrated. So scared out of my mind.
“My father?” I blew up. “My father? Sean Kelly? That one? The one who would’ve killed you if he knew what you were up to? That father?”
“You don’t know—” She took another step forward.
“She’s right,” Cian said, stepping out of the hallway.
“Cian—”
“Kids are in their rooms,” he assured me before looking back at our mother. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been gone four days.”
“Watch your mouth,” my mom retorted.
“That’s what you’re gonna choose to address here?” he asked in disbelief.