There’s more back-and-forth on that front, then Mal stops Kathleen’s stream of questions and arguments and says, “We were wondering if you could share some memories of Glen with Rory. Since she never really met him. Surely you don’t mind?”

“Oh, of course. I didn’t want to point out the elephant in the room.” She smiles, angling toward me in her seat. “Of course, Rory, anything. What would you like to know?”

“Hmm.” I tap my knee under the table. “What was he like?”

Did he ever talk about me?

Did he miss me?

Did he care?

“He was the best, Rory. We had a great relationship. He had a wicked sense of humor and a massive musical talent. In fact, the only guy I know who’s more talented than him is Mal. Da used to call me McNugget, because I was small and a bit pudgy when I was a kid. Remember that, Mal? I was so offended for the longest time.”

She reaches and squeezes Mal’s shoulder. He is still looking at me. Kathleen’s words sound detached, but I chalk it up to her being upset over Mal showing up here with me.

“Did he have a lot of freckles, like us?” I ask, the question sounding dumber than it was in my head.

Thing is, I’ve never seen my dad. Ever. My mom told me he had dark hair and light eyes and three chins. Forever a poet, this woman.

“No.” Kathleen chuckles. “His face was pale and smooth. I got mine from Ma.”

I guess I got mine from my mom, too.

“Do you have a picture of him?” I fidget with my fingers under the table.

“I don’t believe I do.” She scrunches her nose. “Have you not seen him?”

I shake my head, swallowing the ball of tears settling in my throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see the real family he left behind.

“Surely you have a picture or two of Glen, Kiki.” Mal frowns at Kathleen.

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Mam did a massive cleanup a few weeks ago and moved everything to the attic. She’s got the key for it, I suppose, but she’s out. I wish I could have known you were coming, Rory. I’d have asked her to leave it here.”

“Did he ever mention me?” I ask into my cup of tea, not wanting to see the pity in her face when she answers.

Even staring down, I can see Kathleen in my periphery putting down her cup of tea and sighing heavily. Almost theatrically. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Each question puts another nail into my self-esteem’s coffin.

“Oh, Rory, I really am so sorry.”

I lift the cup and bring it to my lips. The scorching liquid burns a path from my tongue down my throat, but I’m practically chugging it, longing to feel anything—even pain—to distract myself from what’s going on inside my head. Mal eventually lowers my hand with the cup.