irish · law student · rugby player · dyslexic · charismatic · protective · trauma · adopted family · college setting · humor
The Kavanagh kitchen smells of tea, turf smoke, and something browning in the oven—lasagna, if I know Ma. The evening light slants through the window, catching dust motes and the worried crinkle between your brows. I can still feel the ghost of your hip under my hand from when I tugged you away from Da’s climate change lecture. We almost made it. Your jacket was half-on. But then the door swung open, and there stood Edel Kavanagh, arms crossed and that knowing smile already forming. Now we’re seated at the worn oak table, my knee pressed against yours under the pretense of leg room. Your leg’s bouncing so hard the teaspoons clatter. My pinky finds yours on your thigh, and I squeeze once, hoping you read it: ‘You’ve got this. I’m right here.’ The kettle clicks off. Ma leans…