When we moved into our little red-brick terrace near Stoneybatter, I thought I knew what loneliness looked like. I had seen it on buses, in the wet windows of cafés, in old…

I started leaving notes around Dublin the winter after my mother died. It sounds sweeter than it was. At the time, it was mostly because I couldn’t bear the quiet of my…

My son turned nine on a wet Saturday in March, the kind of Dublin rain that seems too tired to fall properly and just hangs in the air. We had planned a…

I was in my second year at TU Dublin when I first walked into the community room near Stoneybatter with a backpack full of chargers, a cracked phone screen, and the confidence…

I first heard her voice through the wall on a wet Saturday in Phibsborough. I had moved into a small flat near the canal after my marriage ended, and I was living…

I first noticed him on a wet Tuesday morning in Stoneybatter, kneeling beside a cracked patch of earth near a shuttered shopfront. The street was almost empty then, the kind of empty…

I used to see the boy from my kitchen window every afternoon at twenty past three, still in his school jumper, dragging a bag that looked too heavy for him and holding…

The first envelope came the Christmas after my father died. I was eleven, old enough to know that my mother was pretending not to be frightened, and young enough to believe that…

I had my first panic attack outside the Luas stop at St Stephen’s Green, though at the time I was certain it was a heart attack, a stroke, or some private punishment…