16 17 When Aoife was three , I got word that Mrs. O'Sullivan had died . Stroke , they said . Quick and merciful . I sent flowers but didn't attend the funeral . Some bridges couldn't be rebuilt . Cillian returned from Ireland for the burial . My sources said he looked healthier , calmer . He'd been working with distant cousins there , learning older ways , finding some kind of peace . He didn't try to contact me . I appreciated that . " You're thinking about him , " Ronan observed that night . " About choices . About how different life could have been . " " Regrets creeping in ? " I looked at our daughter sleeping between us , at the man who'd never lied to me , at the empire we'd built together . " No. Just ... acknowledgment . We were children playing at love . What we had was real , but it wasn't enough " And now ? " " Now I have a man who sees me as an equal . A true partner . That's worth more than all the passionate promises in the world . " " Even if I can't write poetry like Irish boys ? " I laughed . " Especially then . I prefer honesty to poetry ." " Good . Because I'm terrible at poetry . " " But excellent at other things ." " Such as ? " " Such as being a father . A husband . A partner ." " Keep talking . My ego enjoys this . " 1 hit him with a pillow . Aoife stirred between us , and we both froze , then laughed quietly . This was happiness . Not the burning , desperate need I'd felt at eighteen , but something sustainable . Something real .