My father was not a sentimental man in public. He was the sort of Dublin man who would call an ambulance “a bit of fuss” and a birthday card “grand altogether” if…

I was fifty-one the morning I saw her again, old enough to have made peace with most things and foolish enough to think the heart stays where you put it. I was…

I used to think missing someone was a dramatic thing, the kind of feeling that made people stand in the rain outside train stations or write long letters they never sent. Then…

I met Cian on a wet Thursday outside the Abbey Theatre, both of us sheltering under the same useless strip of awning while the rain came down like loose change. He offered…

I met him outside Whelan’s on a wet Friday night when Camden Street was shining like someone had polished it with rain. I was twenty-eight, working in a solicitor’s office near St…

I met her in Donegal because I had run away from Dublin without admitting that was what I was doing. I told people I needed air. I told my mother I wanted…

I used to think love was a room with one door. You walked in, closed it behind you, and whatever life you had before stayed outside. Then, at thirty-four, I found myself…

I was thirty-eight when I learned how quietly a life can split in two. It did not happen with shouting or slammed doors. It happened on a wet Tuesday outside a café…

I met Niamh on a wet Thursday evening outside George’s Street Arcade, when both of us were pretending we hadn’t forgotten our umbrellas. She laughed first, which I liked, because I was…