The Return
The solicitor in Ennis had sent the papers with a covering letter of such studied neutrality that Ciarán had read it twice looking for the subtext before accepting that there was none — that it was simply a professional document informing him that his mother had died eleven days ago, that the house and its grounds had been left to him outright, and that certain administrative steps were required. The neutrality had been, he realized, a kindness of sorts. There was no right tone for this kind of letter, and the solicitor had been sensible enough not to reach for one.
He drove west from Dublin on a Thursday, arriving in the village of Kilmoran in the early afternoon. He had not been back in thirty-one years — he had been gone since his twenty-fourth year, gone decisively, gone in the way that was only possible when you were certain you would not need to revise the decision. He had not revised it. He had sent money when she would accept it, and spoken on the phone at Christmas and at Easter, and he had not come back, and his mother had not asked him to come back, because they had arrived, over decades, at a working arrangement based on mutual respect for each other's silences.
The house looked smaller, which he had expected, and more settled into the landscape than he remembered — the stone of the walls had darkened further into the hillside's colours, so that from the lane it