And then when Patrick…
Well…
Things just grew worse for all of us after that.
I know it must have hurt Iris a great deal to be cast aside in such a fashion, to suddenly become a footnote in our grief, but she never once complained. Even right from the beginning when Athair sat her down and explained that her future would be sacrificed for the greater good, she didn’t bat an eye and accepted her fate willingly.
Like I said.
My sister is made of the purest steel.
If she had been born a man, then maybe Athair would have named her his true heir to our family empire.
And I would have followed her lead with the most loyal of hearts.
Still, I made sure that through the years, I prepared Iris for her true destiny. I taught her how to defend herself whenever I could, and when the time came that she wanted to be educated by a professional, I made sure to step back and let her control her own life. It’s the least I could have done, since I’m not sure if she’ll ever have free will again to make her own decisions once she’s made a Bratva bride.
“Is tú mo stóirín. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he whispers to her, our father’s blue eyes starting to glisten with unshed tears as he proclaims his love for his dearest and only daughter.
Athair reluctantly releases her from his hug, placing a tender kiss on her temple.
“I love you too, Athair,” she croaks, her gaze falling to the floor to hide the desolation embedded in her eyes.
“That will be enough out of you two. I will not have tears in my kitchen. Shed what you will in a confessional to a priest like normal folk, and not where I cook,” our Máthair reprimands, drying her hands on a kitchen towel as she stares them both down.
“Aye, Saoirse is right. Apologies, dear daughter, for being such an emotional old fool. I just miss ye already, child. This house will not be the same without ye.”
“It sure will be quieter. My ears will finally have some peace from that racket you call music,” our mother adds with a teasing tone.
Iris steps away from our father, bridging the gap between her and our mother, with her hands on her hips.
“Aye, but you won’t have anyone helping you in this kitchen either. You’ll miss my racket then, won’t ye?”
“Maybe I will,” our mother retorts, her gaze—the same bright green color as Iris’—taking a softening glow. “Not that I’ll ever admit it to your face, girl. Who knows? Maybe I’ll ask Tiernan’s lass to help me out and take your place in the kitchen.”
Iris cackles at that statement.
“Thanks for the laugh, Máthair. I needed it.”
“I didn’t realize I made a joke,” our mother retorts with mirth in her tone.
“Oh dear, Saint Brigid.” Iris continues to chuckle. “No way will any Hernandez spend their time peeling potatoes for you, Ma. I heard they have servants for everything. Even to wipe their arses when they go to the toilet. Fat chance Tiernan’s fiancé even knows what a pot looks like.”
“Geez, girl. Must ye be so vulgar? I’m sure the lass can be of use. Even if it’s only to put some bloody plates on a table,” our mother retorts playfully.
“The only use she has is to bear Tiernan sons. Aside from that, I would rather not lay my eyes on her if I can help it.”
With that cold statement from our father, the temperature in the room declines to arctic levels, stealing any good disposition my mother and sister were trying to find under such trying circumstances. Iris’ brows pinch together at the center of her forehead, obviously bothered by his callous remark.
“She is not at fault for what happened to our family. Let it go, Athair. Otherwise, you are just going to make things more complicated for the rest of us that are trying their best to move on.”
I don’t agree with Iris, but I get where she’s coming from.
If each family puts blame on the women who are coming into our lives for the wrongdoings of the past, then we might as well not go through with the peace treaty since it’s bound to be a disaster anyway. Unfortunately, the forgiving sentiment is easier said than done. Old grudges are hard to overcome—especially in our world. I just pray that Alexi is of the same mindset as Iris and that he doesn’t hold what I’ve done to him in the past against my sister.
Athair doesn’t respond, going back to sit in his seat at the kitchen table and refreshing his cup of tea. He stares at his mug, spinning his teaspoon round and round, trapped in his perturbed thoughts and refusing to acquiesce to my sister’s way of thinking.