I didn’t know who she was talking to, but I wanted to throw up. He was my father, and he was a part of me—presumably a part of me she wasn’t too crazy about.

If Glen had waited just a little longer, I could have met him face to face. Now, I’m meeting him grave to face, hearing about his legacy of out-of-wedlock offspring from a priest.

Class act, Dad.

“Father…?” I eye the giant cross on his chest.

“Doherty,” he provides.

“Father Doherty, did he ever say anything about me?”

In that space of time, between my question and his answer, I feel the entire weight of the world pressing against my shoulders, ready to bury me.

“Yes. Of course. He spoke of you all the time. You were the apple of his eye. He bragged about your photography. Whenever he got out of the house, he made a point of shoving pictures of you in people’s faces and saying, ‘This, right here, is my daughter.’”

Whenever he got out of the house.

His situation was so awful. Mom never once tried to help him. Why?

“How come he never wanted to see me?”

I don’t know why I decide to unload all these questions on this stranger. He couldn’t have known my dad too well. It’s not like Glen used to attend church regularly…at least I don’t think.

“He sent you money every month and loved you from afar, knowing you were better off not knowing him.” Father Doherty evades the painful question. “Some people are weak, but not necessarily bad. He’d been battling depression and alcoholism, and wasn’t in a state to take care of a child.”

Maybe Dad did save me from himself. The important thing is that he talked about me, right? That he took care of me in his own, roundabout way? Yeah, I can work with that. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Mom had a hand in the fact that we never met.

A trickle of warmth sneaks into my chest. “Can I meet my sister? Do you know where she lives?”

I’m grasping at straws at this point. I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes me actively dislike myself. Get it together. He didn’t even leave you a letter before he died.

“Ah, poor thing’s in a state. I’m afraid she doesn’t want to be reached. However…” He strokes his chin, mulling an idea. “I know someone who could help you. Follow me.”

I shadow Father Doherty into the church, all the way to the dim back office, where he sits at a heavy oak desk and scribbles an address on a piece of paper. He talks as he writes.

“My grandson busks on Drury Street. He knew your da well enough. Glen taught him how to play the guitar. I’m sure Mal is full of stories about Glen. Why don’t you talk to him over a few pints, eh? But not too many, unless you want the stories to take unexpected, bizarre turns.” He chuckles, sliding the address across the desk along with a fifty-euro note.