By the time I landed in Dublin, I was already regretting the coat I didn’t pack. Spain had tricked me again. Warm autumn sun, lazy late lunches, the garden still alive with thyme and fuchsia doing their annual late push—and I’d somehow forgotten what Irish December feels like. Like the damp has opinions. And they’re personal.
The drive west was quiet. Max slept the whole way, occasionally thudding against the side of the crate every time I took a bend too sharply. The hedgerows were bare, the fields still, the sky that soft slate grey that never quite commits to rain but never rules it out either.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, I could already see the frost hugging the edges of the vegetable beds. The garden looked paused, like it was holding its breath. Not dead. Just sleeping with one eye open. If felt good to be back.
Inside, the house remembered me. Just barely. The heating struggled, the kettle groaned, and a box of forgotten crackers from last Christmas practically dissolved when I picked it up. I swept. I lit the fire. I stood in the doorway to the garden with a cup of tea and told myself not to cry.
The boys arrived the next day, in stages. Sean first—always early, always pretending not to check up on me. Then Cian, with his smart coat and a car boot full of groceries I didn’t ask for. Eoin last, naturally, arms full of wrapped things, none of which had name tags. He guessed right, mostly.
They filled the house with noise. Laughing, arguing about who was supposed to bring the wine, debating whether Max had put on weight (he has). They asked about Spain, about the garden, about the WhatsApp group they’re not in (thank God). At one point, Sean asked if I’d given any more thought to “long-term stuff.”
I pretended not to understand, but I knew what he meant.
The truth is, the more time I spend in Spain, the more the practical bits creep in. The what-ifs. What if something happens and I’m alone? What if Max gets sick? What if I do? I’d started looking into a few things quietly, including private health insurance in Spain—just in case. Not dramatic. Just… sensible. Getting older makes you think differently about things like paperwork and prescriptions. And hospitals.
I didn’t tell them that, though. I just changed the subject and asked if they’d seen the rowan tree. Brian’s tree. Eoin went out and stood in front of it for a long time. Didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.
Christmas Day was messy, the way it’s supposed to be. Eoin burned the parsnips. Max got into the bin. I dropped the gravy boat. Sean kept correcting everyone’s wine pours. Cian couldn’t stop working, even with the laptop “just checking the roast times.” It was perfect.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I crept out to the garden. Frost had settled thick across the soil. The fuchsia was blackened, the lavender curled in on itself. But under the elder tree, the bulbs I planted late—too late—were still there. Waiting.
Spring will come. That’s the deal. And when it does, I’ll be here. Or there. Or somewhere in between.
But I’ll be ready.