Chapter 4
Whispers and Worries
Angela’s mother and siblings, Aggie, Pat, and Tom, are around. Angela tries to act normal, but her heart pounds with the secret. She fears discovery and the consequences of her impulsive act.
The thin afternoon light, already watery and weak, struggled to push its way through the grimy windowpanes of their small cottage. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and the comforting aroma of Mrs. O’Malley’s simmering stew. Angela sat at the worn wooden table, her hands clasped tightly beneath its surface, her small body rigid. Across from her, her mother, a woman whose face seemed etched with the weariness of too many Limerick winters, stirred the pot with a tired sigh. Little Aggie, her cheeks flushed with a fever that had bloomed overnight, lay bundled in a blanket on the hearth rug, her breathing shallow and raspy. Pat and Tom, the whirlwinds of boyish energy, were engaged in a fierce, hushed battle over a wooden soldier, their arguments punctuated by the clatter of small fists.
Angela tried to hum a tune, a simple hymn her mother often sang, but the notes caught in her throat, turning into a pathetic little squeak. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of Aggie’s blanket, sent a jolt of panic through her. She kept her eyes fixed on the chipped pattern of the tablecloth, avoiding the knowing glances her mother might cast her way. Her mother, bless her, was a practical woman, but she had eyes that saw more than most, eyes that could pierce through a child’s flimsy excuses.
“Angela, child, are you quite well?” her mother’s voice, though gentle, cut through the din. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”
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