She had always been a part of his life, even before she’d come to live with him. He paid attention to birthdays and holidays, and spent time with her when it was possible. He probably could have contested paternity if he’d really wanted to. Her mother was no nun. But then again, he was no priest, so who was he to judge? And there was never any doubt that she was his daughter. She had his stunning bright blue eyes and his attractive angular features. He had looked at her the first time, when she was just a baby, and he knew. He’d paid more than required in child support, and kept tabs on her life to make sure she was generally doing all right.

But there was a big difference between being a part-time father and having full responsibility for raising a thirteen-year-old girl. The prospect had been enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. In those first few months, he’d probably slept less than a few hours a night, constantly worried that he was screwing something up.

That had passed, though. They had settled into a comfortable routine, and they had come to rely on each other in ways that he hadn’t anticipated. She was willful and determined, but he liked that about her. He wasn’t thrilled with the tattoos, but she was one of the smartest students in her school. She worked hard, and she had a good head on her shoulders and a solid heart, so he let things like that pass. It’s not like she would ever be hanging out with the Daughters of the American Revolution up on Marlborough Street anyway. She was from Southie, and he liked her that way. He sometimes felt like he’d let her down—like she could have been so much more if given the chance. But then he’d look at her and see her smile and realize that she was exactly who she wanted to be.

That was enough. The time that he had with her, brief though it might be, was enough. He had to be at work in an hour or so, but even that temporary respite from the rest of his reality would help to serve as his touchstone.

He walked into the kitchen and saw her sitting at the table, and felt a wave of comfort roll over him. “Darlin’,” he said with a smile. He’d never fully lost the Irish brogue from the land he’d left behind when he was twelve.

“Mack,” she said. They’d struggled early on over what she should call him. Even as a young child, “Dad” just didn’t fit, but he’d never been comfortable with his own daughter calling him “Cormack.” It seemed too common and disrespectful. At some point they’d settled on “Mack.” She was the only one who would have ever been able to get away with such informality.