Saoirse’s POV

  In the wake of my parents' deaths, life became divided into before and after.

  Before, I had a mother who kissed my forehead every morning and a father who lifted me onto his shoulders. Before, I had a family that felt whole.

  After, I had silence. A deep, aching emptiness that no words could fill.

  But I also had Fiona Byrne.

  In those first few weeks, I barely spoke. My throat felt raw from crying, and my chest ached from holding in sobs. People tiptoed around me, offering soft words and sad smiles, but I didn’t want their pity.

  Fiona never pitied me.

  She just was.

  She was there in the mornings, brushing my tangled hair when my grandmother was too lost in grief to do it. She was there in the afternoons, coaxing me to eat when my appetite had disappeared. And at night, when sleep felt impossible, she would sit beside my bed, her fingers running gently through my hair until I drifted off.

  She didn’t ask me to talk. She didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed.

  She just loved me.

  And I clung to that love like a lifeline.

  It happened months after my parents’ deaths.

  I had spent the day with Fiona, following her around the house as she worked, never straying too far from her side. She didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she welcomed it, always finding little ways to include me—letting me help her fold laundry, teaching me how to knead dough for fresh bread, humming soft songs under her breath as we moved through the day together.

  That night, she tucked me into bed like she always did, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead.

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  “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she whispered.

  The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  “Goodnight, Mom.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then, she sucked in a shaky breath and pulled me into her arms.

  “Oh, my love,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You are my girl. Always.”

  From that night on, she was Mom, and Eamon was Dad.

  And no one ever corrected me.

  Fiona treated me as her own daughter, never making me feel like an outsider in her home.

  She was the one who held my hand through my first heartbreak. The one who taught me how to walk in heels, how to apply the perfect shade of lipstick, how to carry myself with confidence.

  She was the one who scolded me when I pushed myself too hard, who reminded me that I didn’t have to be strong all the time.

  She was the one who fought with my grandmother over my choices—because unlike Kathleen, who was traditional in her ways, Fiona encouraged me to chase my dreams, no matter where they led.

  She celebrated my wins. She picked me up after my losses.

  She was Mom in every way that mattered.

  My grandparents—Seamus and Kathleen Flanagan—were always good to me. They loved me, raised me, and gave me a home. But they also came from a different time, a different mindset.

  They believed in structure, in discipline. In doing things the way they had always been done.

  Fiona? She believed in me.

  When I wanted to study computer engineering instead of something “more practical” for GaelCorp, my grandparents hesitated. Fiona stood by my side, telling me to follow my passion.

  When I wanted to move away for college, Kathleen nearly had a heart attack. Fiona helped me pack my bags.

  And when I returned, older and more independent, Fiona was the one who looked at me with pride instead of worry.

  That was the difference between them.

  My grandparents loved me.

  But Fiona understood me.

  As I grew older, Fiona became more than just a mother figure—she became my best friend.

  She was the one I called when I was stressed about work. The one I went to for advice when things got messy. The one who never judged me for my choices, even when they were different from what she would have wanted.

  But there was one thing she wanted that I couldn’t give her.

  She wanted me to marry Cian.

  She started suggesting it subtly when we were around twenty-four or twenty-five, casually mentioning how “you two would make such a great couple” or “it would be perfect, you already know each other so well.”

  I always laughed it off.

  Because to me, Cian was my friend.

  That’s all he had ever been. That’s all he would ever be.

  But Fiona? She never gave up hope.

  And maybe—just maybe—she saw something I didn’t.