Outside there is a bench in the sun and I sit on it with my phone in my hand. This will be the third time I’ve phoned Brendan during work hours since Monday. Before then, I had rung him five times at the office in all the years he’s worked for GoldStar Insurance.

The first time, I was in labor with Kate in the fruit and veg aisle in Superquinn. Well, I thought I was. Kate eventually arrived two weeks later.

Then there was the time that Anna caught her finger in the hinge of her doll’s pram. And when Kate stood on the piece of glass on Portmarnock beach.

The day my mother died.

And the day I lost Dad in town. That was the day Brendan slid the brochure for Sunnyside over to my side of the kitchen table. He was right, really. About Dad. It was harder than I thought.

His phone rings and rings and I’m trying to work out what message I’ll leave on his voice mail when he answers with his curt, “Brendan Shepherd.”

“It’s me,” I say.

“I know.” There’s the impatience he has employed for all of my—now, eight—phone calls to him at work. I feel my heartbeat pick up speed as if we are in the middle of a terrible argument, which we are not.

“Why did you say ‘Brendan Shepherd’ then? If you knew it was me? Why didn’t you just say hello?” My voice is louder than it needs to be. There is an edge to it.

“That’s how I always answer the phone,” says Brendan.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s all right,” he says, and I can feel my anger again, rising like bile from an empty stomach and I don’t know why I feel angry, I really don’t.

“Actually, I’m not sorry,” I say.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No. But I just... I didn’t mean to say sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Habit, I suppose.”

“Are you okay, Terry?”

“Yes.”

“When are you coming home?”

“It...depends.” He doesn’t ask what it depends on. I suppose he knows. But still, it would be nice if he said something.

“Kate is driving up this evening,” he says then.

“Kate? Why? Is everything all right?” Kate visits, of course she does. But not without notice. Lots of notice. Besides, she is up to her eyes in preparation for opening night.

“Yes, calm down. Everything is fine,” says Brendan as if he is rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, which is the thing he does when he is tired. “She’s getting some paperwork from her bedroom, she said.”

“What paperwork?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what she said.”

“There’s no paperwork in her room.”

“I didn’t give her the third degree. She’s a grown woman.” Brendan has been telling me that my children are grown women for years. And I know they are. But I also know that Kate is not coming home for paperwork, because I clean her room every Friday and I can attest to the fact that there is no paperwork in her room. And none belonging to her anywhere else in the house.