I hadn’t planned on coming back so soon.
But Connemara has a way of pulling you home, whether you’re ready or not.
Sean had called—something about a leak in the roof, something about how “it’s nothing urgent, Mum, but if you were thinking of coming back soon…” And that was that. Bags packed. Max at my feet in the car. Another flight. Another drive down roads I knew by heart.
The house smelled damp. It always did after being shut up too long, like rain had somehow found its way inside. The garden was the same mess I’d left it, weeds creeping into every space I hadn’t tamed. But there, in the middle of it all, were the harebells.
The ones I thought were gone.
I knelt down, ran my fingers over the delicate purple petals. They’d come back. Against all odds. In the middle of the chaos, they’d decided to grow.
The boys arrived the next morning, loud and carrying too much food, as if I’d forgotten how to shop. Sean, straight to the boiler, mumbling about insulation. Cian, pacing with his phone, pretending to be present. Eoin, always the one to really look at me.
“You okay, Mum?”
I waved a hand at the garden. “The harebells came back.”
He grinned. “Like magic.”
More like resilience.
Over the next few days, I lost myself in the work. Clearing out the beds, checking on Brian’s tree, running my hands through the lavender. It felt different this time. Less like holding onto the past. More like making space for whatever was next.
One afternoon, as I was pulling weeds near the vegetable patch, Eoin sat beside me, legs stretched out, eyes on the sky.
“Any news from Spain?” he asked, too casual.
I kept my focus on the soil. “The fuchsia’s still struggling.”
“Mmm.”
Silence. Then, “And Miguel?”
I sighed.
Eoin nudged my shoulder. “He sounds interesting.”
“He’s a botanist.”
“That’s not a no.”
I didn’t have an answer for him. Didn’t have an answer for myself.
That night, after the boys had gone, I stood in the garden, barefoot in the damp grass, staring at the harebells. Wondering how they’d done it. How they’d survived the winter, the storms, the neglect.
Maybe things grow when you stop trying so hard to make them.
Maybe they just need time.