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SAOIRSE
After Liam leftme to my own devices, I begrudgingly hauled myself back to my room, where I spent the rest of the early morning tossing and turning, fighting sleep and the unwanted visions it would bring.
Finally, the morning sun reflects through my window, illuminating the room with its warm, orange glow. Still restless, I push from the bed and head for my duffle bag.
Maybe if I busy myself unpacking the few belongings I managed to take with me, which isn’t much — a few clean pairs of underwear, two pairs of leggings, and two ratty old t-shirts — I can get out of my head.
As I open the zipper, my attention strays from my task to the old wooden box perched on top. I haven’t opened it since the motel, not wanting to relive the trauma its existence brings. Stupid, I know, especially when I’m aware it holds some of the answers I need.
Suppose now’s as good a time as any.
My need for something, anything to explain how I ended up here grows, and I take the box over to the small vanity by the window. Once I’m seated, I run my fingers over the detailed lid.
In the shape of a triangle, three small coats of arms surround one larger one. The one at the top is identical to the crest I saw yesterday on the Devereux’s entrance, and the two on the bottom I’ve never seen before. The larger coat of arms in the centre draws me in. Two lions stand off to either side, holding up the crest, showcasing three gold gryphon heads with the wordsMalo Mori quam foedari’scrolled beneath.
After reaching for my phone, I pull up my google search and type in the quote. Pages and pages of translations appear, but one, in particular, catches my eye, captioned: ‘The Ryan Family Crest & Motto.’
Clicking onto the site, an image identical to the main image on the lid appears. I scan the text until I find the quote I’m looking for. Finally, I see it at the bottom of the page.
The Rían (anglicised to Ryan) family motto and Latin phrase ‘Malo Mori quam foedari’ translates to I would rather die than be disgraced.
It seems my ancestors were a morbid bunch.
Done with my research for now, I place my phone onto the vanity top and carefully lift the lid off the box. The dusty scent catches in my nostrils, reminding me of the old bookshop in my old town.
Breathing it in, I get lost in a nostalgic world created by typed words. Then, for a brief moment, I let my eyes shut, and my mind wanders back to simpler times when my biggest worry was what my mam was cooking for dinner.
However, reality seeps in, leaving me longing for a moment I can’t go back to. This, whatever fuckery it is, is my life now. I just pray I’m strong enough to withstand all that comes with the truth my mother sheltered me from.
I reach into my mother's past with another deep breath and pull out a stack of old handwritten notes and photographs. Most hold no significance to me, nameless faces, unknown places, and random numbers scribbled with no meaning. One torn page, yellowed with time, stands out amongst the rest.
Éanna,
A heart as wild as yours needs to be free.
Free from all the ties your last name bound you to.
I need you to know no matter how far you have to run to keep her safe, my love will always follow.
Take care of our girl, and be sure to tell her every day just how much her daddy loves her.
Forever yours, always mine, protecting you from afar.
A lone tear slides down my cheek as I re-read the note repeatedly, searching for any clue about the man behind the words. The man who I know without a doubt is my father.
I questioned my mother for my entire childhood, begging her to tell me who the other half of my DNA belonged to, but she always shot me down. Unintentionally making me believe he didn’t want me in his life. I always thought he’d abandoned us, not wanting any part of the life he created with my mam.
Year after year, I would wait by the door on my birthday, hoping for a strange man to come and claim me as his child. Pathetic whims of a tender heart; I know.
When I reached my teens, I gave up, choosing to believe he never cared about us, and whoever he was, he didn’t deserve a place in my life.
However, this note couldn’t be any more different to the false reality I crafted in my mind. These are not the words of a man who chose to leave his family for selfish reasons. No, they are anything but. A desperate man who let us go, all so my mother could be free of whatever bound her to this place.
“Who are you?” I whisper, even though I know I won’t get a reply.
Riffling through the remains of the contents, I search for any information on him, but I come up empty-handed. Finally, frustration kicks in, and I fling the now-barren box across the floor. If he loved my mam and me as much as this note suggests, why didn’t he come for us?
* * *
