Chapter 6 - ARRIVAL IN THE EMERALD ISLE
Thirteen hours later, the heavy metal door of the Boeing 777 hissed open, and the damp, cool breeze of Dublin Airport washed over my face.
It was raining—a soft, persistent Irish mist that immediately made my hair frizz and kissed my cheeks with moisture. But as I walked down the jet bridge and into Terminal 2, I took a deep, shuddering breath, filling my lungs with air that carried no trace of Tacoma, no trace of mortgage bills, and no trace of burning plastic.
Passing through passport control took less than five minutes. The Irish border officer, a middle-aged man with kind crinkles around his eyes named Liam, glanced at my Irish passport, then up at my face.
“Welcome home, Ms. Miller,” Liam said warmly, stamping my entry with a crisp, clean thump. “Visiting family or staying awhile?”
“Staying awhile,” I smiled, my voice carrying a lightness I hadn't felt in a decade. “Starting a new teaching position in the city center.”
“Ah, brilliant! Dublin needs good teachers. Enjoy the rain, love.”
Walking out into the arrivals hall, I spotted a handwritten cardboard sign bobbing above the crowd: CLARA MILLER – DUBLIN EDUCATORS WELCOME.
Holding the sign was Aunt Maeve—my father’s younger sister, whom I hadn't seen in person since I was twelve years old. She had the same sparkling green eyes and fierce, no-nonsense jawline as my dad.
“Clara!” Maeve shrieked, dropping the sign and rushing forward, wrapping her arms around me in a bear hug that nearly lifted me off the floor.
“Aunt Maeve!” I cried, burying my face in her woolen scarf, letting the tears fall freely at last.
“Look at you,” Maeve pulled back, holding me by the shoulders, her eyes sweeping over my soot-stained coat and exhausted face. “You look like you’ve been through a bloody blender. Come on, my car is parked right outside, and I’ve got a cottage pie sitting in the oven and a hot cup of tea waiting with your name on it.”
By the time we drove out of the airport and into the rolling, emerald-green countryside north of Dublin toward her home in Howth, the exhaustion of the past thirty-six hours finally caught up with me. I curled up in the passenger seat of her battered old Mini Cooper, resting my head against the cold glass window, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming through white lace curtains into a cozy guest bedroom smelling of lavender and old paper.
My phone—which I had kept on airplane mode during the flight—buzzed violently on the bedside table.
I picked it up and turned off airplane mode.
Within seconds, a flood of notifications cascaded across the screen:
24 missed calls from Mom.
18 missed calls from Brooke.
12 frantic text messages.
I tapped the text messages, scrolling up to read the latest from Brooke:
Clara, please call us back. The bank investigator called the house this morning. They are freezing Mom’s accounts and auditing the HELOC file. Mom is having heart palpitations, she’s talking about going to the hospital. How could you be so cruel? We’re your family!
I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment.
Then, with absolute calm, I opened my contacts, selected both Helen and Brooke, and tapped Block Contact.
May you like
I laid the phone back down on the wooden nightstand, turned on my side, and looked out the window at the sparkling blue expanse of the Irish Sea crashing against the cliffs of Howth.
My past was ashes. My future was right here.
