Seamus left his wife and child and sister behind in England and worked for the rest of the summer and into the harvest; his mother fretted to her daughters that she was afraid he would work himself to death. But at the end of the season, he finally had enough to buy a small plot of land. He took a factory job for the winter and, in March, sent for his family.
Little Daniel was a fat, happy child now; he still barely knew his father, and had whined and cried when they had left the estate on which he had been born and lived his whole life till then. But when, in Dublin, he was passed into his grandmother’s arms for the first time and showered with kisses and love, he kicked his chubby legs and squealed.
It was a long, bumpy journey to the west, but when at last Seamus handed his mother, sister, and his wife down from the cart, the sight was a beautiful one. The hills were just beginning to turn green again, and in the distance, they could hear and smell and see a sliver of the sapphire-blue sea.
He touched the small of Josephine’s back. “Welcome home,” he murmured in her ear.