The Crooked Branch

Surely God would forgive a mother for that sort of tender brutality?

Yes, I am bovine, entirely.

ceiling. I glance down at my engorged boob. It’s bigger than Emma’s head. Disgusting. I feel a hot blush creeping up my neck.

But despite these hopeful words, a look of desperate resignation passed between the two men. They knew the absentee landlords over in London didn’t care about the natives, so long as their plum Irish land continued to yield hearty profits, so long as the grains and cattle they extorted from Ireland continued to fetch their English fortunes.

Ginny caught herself recoiling in horror, but she forced herself to stay, to draw closer, even. She squeezed the poor woman’s fingers.

Emma latches on like a champ, and I’m so grateful for this small, ordinary miracle.

“If you’re good, I’ll bring ye back something from America,” he said. “But not if there’s tears.”

“And they have jobs.” “You still have a job, you just have to do your job.” “Ouch,” I say. “I’m not rushing you,” he says. “But don’t complain about it when it’s your own choice.”

It slipped out of me, exactly in the precise way that my reluctant daughter did not.