CHAPTER 5

Family

Breakfast ends in a tense silence that Claire seems determined to ignore.

She talks enthusiastically about her plans for the day, telling me about a book she's reading, a drawing she wants to finish, and a school project she insists will be the best in her class.

I listen as carefully as I can, trying to respond naturally despite the unfamiliarity of every detail.

Declan sits across from me, quiet and watchful. His presence is impossible to ignore, but I refuse to let his silence dictate how I interact with our daughter.

Our daughter.

The words still feel strange inside my head.

“Can I show Mommy my room now?” Claire asks, practically bouncing in her chair.

Declan sets down his napkin.

“Of course, princess.”

She turns to me with a smile so hopeful that I can't bring myself to refuse.

“Come on! There's so much I want to show you.”

I let her take my hand and lead me upstairs.

For a little while, the distance between Declan and me feels like a relief. I need space to understand the child beside me without feeling as though every movement is being observed and interpreted.

Claire's bedroom is a world entirely different from the rest of the mansion.

Glow-in-the-dark stars cover the ceiling. Shelves overflow with books and stuffed animals, and one entire wall is dedicated to drawings attached with colorful pieces of tape.

“This is my wall,” she announces proudly. “Every picture is from a day I waited for you to come back.”

I stop walking.

Hundreds of drawings cover the wall.

Some show a woman with dark hair standing beside a tall man. Others feature a little blond girl holding their hands. There are pictures of beaches, parks, birthday parties, and the stone house I barely recognize.

In every drawing, the three of us are together.

My chest tightens.

“Did you make all of these?”

She nods.

“Not all at once! Some are really old. Daddy kept the ones I made when I was little, and I added new ones every year.”

She points to a drawing of a cake with crooked candles.

“This one was for my tenth birthday. I wished for you to come home.”

I stare at the picture.

The woman in it has a broad smile, and the little girl beside her is holding a balloon almost as big as her head. Declan stands behind them, one hand resting on each of their shoulders.

It looks like an ordinary family.

The kind of picture that should have brought me comfort.

Instead, it reminds me of everything I cannot remember.

“Claire…”

She looks up at me immediately.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “It's beautiful.”

Her smile grows.

“I knew you would.”

I sit on the edge of her bed, and she settles beside me with her teddy bear in her lap.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Anything.”

“Do you remember what I was like?”

She thinks about it seriously.

“Daddy tells me stories about you. He says you liked drawing clothes and that you could make a whole outfit out of things other people would throw away.”

Fashion.

The word stirs something faint in the back of my mind. Not a clear memory, just the suggestion of fabric beneath my fingers, a pencil moving across paper, and the satisfaction of seeing an idea take shape.

I hold on to it.

“What else?”

“You used to sing when you cooked. Daddy says you were terrible at remembering where you put things.”

A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

Claire's eyes brighten.

“See? You laughed just like he said you would!”

The joy in her voice makes my smile falter.

She isn't simply telling me stories. She's searching for evidence that the mother she remembers might still be somewhere inside me.

And I have nothing to offer her but uncertainty.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper.

Her smile fades.

“For what?”

“For not remembering.”

Claire looks down at her teddy bear, running a finger over its worn ear.

“Daddy said that might happen.”

My throat tightens.

“He did?”

“He said you might need time. He told me not to ask you too many questions at once.”

She pauses, then looks at me again.

“But I can still tell you things, right?”

“Of course you can.”

“And you won't get upset?”

“I'll try not to.”

She seems satisfied with that answer.

Then she begins telling me about her favorite books, the games she plays with her father, and the enormous list of things she wants us to do together.

She wants to bake cookies.

She wants to visit a bookstore.

She wants to show me the garden, where she says I used to sit and read when the weather was warm.

She wants to know whether I still like the same colors, the same food, the same music.

Every question reminds me of the woman I used to be.

But beneath the sadness, something else begins to take shape.

Curiosity.

I want to know what she likes. I want to hear more of her stories. I want to discover which parts of our lives might still be waiting for me to find them.

I cannot promise her that my memories will return.

I cannot promise that I will become the mother she remembers.

But I can listen.

For now, that has to be enough.

A quiet knock interrupts us.

Declan stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Everything all right?”

Claire immediately climbs off the bed.

“Daddy! I was showing Mommy my drawings.”

“I can see that.”

“Can we do something together today? All three of us?”

Declan looks at me before answering.

“If your mother wants to.”

The decision is mine.

The small concession doesn't erase his controlling behavior or the fact that I'm still in a house I never chose to enter. But I notice it all the same.

Claire turns to me, waiting.

I take a breath.

“We could do something simple,” I say. “Maybe spend some time in the garden.”

Her face lights up.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She lets out a delighted squeal and rushes toward the wardrobe to find her favorite sweater.

Declan watches her with an expression I can't quite interpret.

When she disappears into the adjoining bathroom, he turns toward me.

“Thank you.”

I fold my arms.

“Don't mistake this for forgiveness.”

“I don't.”

“And I'm not going to pretend I remember things I don't.”

“I wouldn't ask you to.”

I study his face, looking for the hidden demand, the condition he might attach to every small act of cooperation.

“Then understand something, Declan. Claire deserves honesty. If she asks me a question, I won't lie to make either of us more comfortable.”

He holds my gaze.

“Agreed.”

“And I need space to figure out who I am now. You can't decide what I should feel or how quickly I should remember.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't interrupt.

“I can't promise this will be easy,” he says at last.

“I never expected it to be.”

Claire reappears, wearing a bright sweater and carrying her teddy bear under one arm.

“Ready?”

I stand.

“Ready.”

She takes my hand again, and this time I don't hesitate.

As we leave the room, I glance once more at the wall of drawings.

For years, Claire has preserved a place for me in her world.

I don't know whether I can become the woman in those pictures again. I don't know what happened to erase my memories or whether the truth will be kinder than the uncertainty.

But I know one thing.

Claire is not responsible for what happened to me.

She is a child who has waited for her mother, and she deserves the chance to know me—even if we have to begin as strangers.

So I follow her downstairs, one step at a time.

Not because I've accepted Declan's version of my life.

Not because I've remembered my past.

But because, for the first time since arriving in Dublin, I'm making a choice of my own.

I'm choosing to give my daughter a chance.