It began with the sort of rain Dublin does best, not dramatic enough for an umbrella, but persistent enough to ruin your mood. I had taken shelter outside a café on Grafton…

I started therapy because I had become the sort of person who apologised to doors after bumping into them. I was twenty-nine, living in a box room in Rathmines, working in an…

I used to tell people I met my husband in the most Dublin way possible: in the rain, outside a chipper, after a kiss I could barely remember and never quite forgot.…

I met Aoife outside Croke Park on a wet August Sunday, the sort of Dublin rain that doesn’t fall so much as hover, making everyone shine under the grey sky. I was…

I never thought of myself as the kind of woman who would read someone else’s phone. I used to say that privacy was part of love, the small room you left untouched…

People used to tell us we looked like the kind of couple Dublin was invented for. Rain on the windows, two pints on a small table, his hand over mine like a…

I was thirty-two when Maeve asked me the question I had been dodging for nearly three years. We were walking along the canal near Portobello, sharing chips from a paper bag, the…