With that, he turns and starts to walk away. I watch his retreating back and without thinking, I say, “Yeah, you did.”

I follow behind him to where my beat-up, red Honda is waiting for me. Jumping into it, I numbingly drive home to the house I grew up in. A beautiful, ranch-style home is one of six that surround a large lake. There is a dock out back that I would sit on for hours and read until my eyes hurt. There wasn’t a summer day that my mom or dad didn’t find me out there almost sunburned, claiming I only needed to read one more chapter.

I love this house and I love this neighborhood, but I just don’t know if I can live here anymore. The thought of leaving has my stomach in knots though. I know there is money coming in and I could sell the house and start over, but where? How? How am I supposed to live without her? Without him?

Shaking my head before I start to sob, I push my key into the lock, unlock the door, and then enter the house. Parts of my mother and father are everywhere, along with parts of me. My dad’s guitars still sit in the corner, untouched for the last eight years. My mother’s knitting things are still overflowing in a basket by her favorite chair, along with all her law books, which I used to read to her to calm her at night when the pain was unbearable. And then everywhere I look is a notebook or a novel of my own. The house looks exactly the same, and I feel it shouldn’t. I feel that it should look different or changed, the way I feel I have.

Forcing my feet to move, I head to my mother’s room, ignoring her hospital bed, and falling into the one she shared with my father. Taking in a deep breath, her flowery scent intoxicates me. I close my eyes to imagine her beside me, her eyes a bright blue, not the dull color they were before she passed, and her bright red hair falling in heaps of curls around her face as she softly ran her slender fingers through my dark, brownish red hair.

When tears start leaking from my closed eyes, I take in a shuddering breath before I open them and stare up at the ceiling. Her letter is burning in my fingers, and a part of me doesn’t even want to read it right now. I want to ignore it all—act like the last couple days didn’t happen, but I know I can’t. Not only is my uncle expecting my call, but I am also curious why.

So I open the letter. When a check for ten thousand dollars and what looks like a plane ticket falls onto my chest, I ignore them. Through tear-filled eyes, I read my mother’s letter.

My dear, sweet Amberlyn,

I’m so terribly sorry. I don’t think I can apologize enough for not being there for you as you start your adult life. I hate that your life has been so hard, and I wish that there were a way I could change it all, but I can’t. I feel though, that instead of letting this hold you back, you should grow. I believe I have given you all the tools to make your life the best it can be. You are smart, beautiful, and unbelievably talented. And more than anything, I want you to live your dreams.

I know you are probably lying in my bed, wrapped up in a little ball, and bawling your eyes out. Baby, that is fine. Cry. Cry it all out. Then remember that the sun is shining, and you have to as well. As much as I wish I were there with my arms around you, I can’t be, but I am in your heart, along with your father and baby, we love you. So much.

I know that your uncle Felix said for you to call him after reading this, and you are probably wondering why, so let me explain. I don’t want you to live in the past, and I have a feeling you will. I think that you won’t have a reason to get out of bed if you stay in the home that we built. You’ve never really made friends, never really dated, and I want you to do those things, but will you if you are living in our home? I don’t think so. So here is what I propose: Your father’s sister has offered to take you in at her bed and breakfast. Back home, in Ireland.

I think our biggest mistake was moving to the states, but your father was convinced that he was going to be a singer. I believed in him, so we left. As you know, it didn’t work out, but we made a life here and never went back. I wish we had, and I’m sorry we didn’t, but now you have the chance. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you. Something I know your father would have wanted you to do.

So go for a year, work for your aunt, go to school, and live, my sweetheart. There is so much history in Ireland, and I think you’ll not only enjoy the beautiful world but the people as well. I know this seems drastic and that I am asking a lot of you, but my sweet darling, I am worried you’ll get stuck and I don’t want that for you. I want you to live all your dreams, and I think Ireland is the best place to do that.

So go. Your aunt, Shelia, is expecting a call to let her know you are coming. She also holds the next letter that I have written for you so, if anything, you should go for that. It has my wishes for you. After a year, if you haven’t made Ireland your home, then come back and everything will be here for you. Uncle Felix will keep the house going until you decide what you want.

I want you to try for me, but I also want you to stay there for you. I miss you. I love you. Please don’t let us hold you back from living the most amazing life possible. We are so proud of you and love you so much.

Go start a new life.

Love you to the moon and back,

Mom

I let the letter fall to my chest as the tears gush down my face. I don’t know what to think or even do for that matter. How do I leave everything I know behind and start over in a place I have no clue about? How do I go and live with someone that I have never met? She is asking way too much of me, but I know she is right.

So with a heavy sigh, I roll over to my side. My gaze falls on a picture of my father and mother in a tight embrace, both smiling as they look into each other’s eyes. Reaching out, I take the frame in my hand, bringing it in close to my chest against the letter, the money, and the ticket to my new life. As sobs pour out of me, I whisper, “Why did you guys have to leave me?”

I want to stab myself in the eye with one of the many forks that lie before me.

“You’re twenty-two, Declan. It’s time.”

I roll my eyes as I lean back in my chair, picking at the greens on my plate. I know that it can be said that twenty-two isn’t old at all and that may be right, but to my da, I’m ancient. He was married to my mother by nineteen, my grandda married my grandma by eighteen, and so on and so on. I’m the oldest out of my family who is not married; even my sister, at only seventeen, has the prospects of a husband once she turns eighteen. This may very well be the 20th century but to the O’Callaghan family, you get married, you run the whiskey distillery, and you have kids. I’m not against any of this. Not at all, but if I’m to get married, I want it to be because I’m mad about her. Not for the reason my da wants.