CHAPTER THREE
SEAN
“There he is!”
My dad yells this the second I walk into my family’s bar.
And the rest of the bar cheers.
Regulars and friends rush over to give me a hug. I accept ‘em while trying to graciously push past so I can reach my parents.
My boots land softly on the wooden floor, masked by the sounds of celebratory voices, clinking glasses, and scraping utensils. The bar is a blend of Irish pub and Southern honky-tonk, and while I’ve known the inside of it my whole life, it’s the subtle differences that make me wonder if I’m really at home.
The old brass fixtures have been replaced with smoother, matte black ones that don’t catch on sleeves or wrists. The heavy, creaky bar doors are gone, replaced by automatic push-button ones—both sleek and functional. My brother’s guitars hang on one dark-paneled wall, while some of my jerseys hang on another, including an Arsenal jersey that sends a wistful pangto my heart. They’re all arranged so neatly, framed with polished wood trim. Like a proud parent hanging their kids’ artwork on the walls. The old neon beer signs have been replaced by backlit Celtic designs—a tree of life, a twisting knot, a silver harp etched with the bar’s name: Donegal’s.
I take a beat to marvel at just how much better the place looks in the month and a half I’ve been gone. And how much more accessible, too.
Everything’s been adjusted, streamlined. Lowered countertops at the end of the bar, the shelving restructured so Dad doesn’t have to strain to reach a single thing. The narrow back hallway widened just enough to fit his wheelchair without the constant threat of scraping his knuckles against the drywall. Even the bathroom door has been upgraded—one of those soft-closing, touch-sensitive kinds that barely makes a sound.
It’s amazing what money can do.
And love.
I just wish I’d been the brother able to afford it all.
No, don’t say that. Pat needed this. And it doesn’t mean your family doesn’t need you.
I clear the pain of my regret from my throat to make room for the swell of excitement as I finally reach my parents. Mom throws her arms around me in a tight hug, first. She and my dad have been through the wringer together, but after years of her making choices that hurt our family, a couple of months ago, she decided it was time to make amends, and she’s been doing her part to make up for the hurt she caused every day.
“I’m so proud of you, sweet boy!” she says. She pulls back to look at me. “You did your team proud. And your family.”
When she beams, I can’t help smiling back. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Stop hogging him,” Dad says from behind her. Mom laughs and moves out of the way, and I lean down to give my dad a hugin his wheelchair. He squeezes me tight and pats my back. “You did good, son. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I’d be prouder if I hadn’t let in the series-losing goal,” I say wryly. The three of us go back behind the bar, and judging by how busy it is, my parents could use the help. Mom’s cooking—a job that used to belong to Pat, but he’s on tour with the famous Lucy Jane. They flew out for two of my playoff games, and their presence was a bigger deal than the Arsenal making it to the second round of NHL playoffs for the first time in team history. I’m not sure the coach loved that, but I can’t control that my brother and his girlfriend are more famous than any of the rest of us will ever be.
Especially me.
“You can’t blame yourself for letting in a goal,” Dad says, pouring a Guinness for a customer. “Do you blame Hughes formissingso many goals?”
I strap on an apron. “No, but that’s understandable. No one can make every shot.”
“No one can save every shot, either. You did good. Accept it.”
“Yes sir.”
In no time at all, Dad and I are back in a familiar rhythm. It’s incredible to see him serving so comfortably.
“When did the surgeon clear you to be back at work?” I ask.
“He said I’m clear for light activity.”
“That doesn’t look light, Pops.”
Dad spins a bottle with surprising dexterity, pouring a perfect measure of whiskey into a glass without a drop out of place. “You’re only saying that because you’re jealous.”
I laugh. Dad has been a wheelchair user since an accident eleven years ago now. He’ll be one forever. But last year, we found out one of the rods in his spine from the surgery that saved his life had slipped. He had a second surgery a couple of months back to adjust the rod, and mercifully, it was a success.
