And then it clicks.

She’s coming home for Egg.

Some kids have a comfort blanket. A soother. A thumb. Kate had Egg. Egg was a soft, squashy yellow pig. My mother bought it for her. They were inseparable, Kate and Egg. Kate slept with him, brought him to playschool and to primary school. When she got too old for such things, she brought Egg anyway. I worried about this—what the other children might say, what they might do—but I also admired it, because Kate did not share my worry about what the other children might say or what they might do. Egg was Kate’s lucky charm. She was convinced that, without Egg, all of the good things that happened to her would stop happening. Of course, I worried about this too. What if Kate lost Egg? Or he fell out of the buggy? Or got left behind at the playground where she insisted on bringing him, pushing Egg in the baby swing for as long as he wanted, which was always a long time.

After Kate’s first-year exams in English and Drama at Trinity—Egg was secreted into the examination hall, in Kate’s satchel—the pig was, well, decommissioned you might call it. Put on the shelf in Kate’s room, its once soft yellow body now a hard, matted gray in spite of the care I had employed in Egg’s personal hygiene over the years. He was a collection of missing parts; one eye, half an ear, three legs, no tail. Every week, when I dust and vacuum the girls’ bedrooms, I try not to catch Egg’s one good eye as he slumps, forgotten, on the shelf in Kate’s room.

Except he is not forgotten. Because Kate is coming back for him, which means Kate is stressed.

And I’m not there.

My daughter is stressed. Stressed enough to come home.

I should be there. “Terry?”

“What?”

“I was just wondering if you’ve done anything about the hotel in Galway yet? Kate will ask me and...”

“No,” I say. And there it is again, the anger, flaring like a distress signal. Maybe I’m getting my period? No, it’s not due. Or maybe I’m menopausal? It could be that, I’m getting to that age, surely?

“No?” Brendan can’t believe it. And in fairness, under ordinary circumstances, I’d be on top of things like that.

“No,” I say again, and then I add, “Have you?” I don’t know why.

“What? No! Of course not. Terry, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation here, with the Canadians. It’s wall-to-wall meetings and endless reports, and then there’s the accent. It’s just so relentless. I mean, they’re anxious that you don’t mix them up with Americans, but then it’s all have a nice day and my great-grandfather was from Bally bloody Bay.”

“Brendan, I—”

“...and they’ve started interviewing my staff. For the luxury of keeping their own jobs...”

“Brendan?”

“...was initially supposed to be a fifteen percent rationalization process, but it’s perfectly obvious that the scope of it is far greater than—”