He couldn’t really remember life before the children. He couldn’t feel it as something he’d once lived. It was too far away, and buried. Something as simple as walking down the street—he was always a father. Or looking at a woman—he was a father.

He had one child left. There’d been four, but three of them were up and running, more or less their own men. They were all boys, still teen-agers. But they weren’t his anymore. Except for the youngest. That was Peter. Peter still held Donal’s hand. Except when there were people coming toward them, boys or girls his own age or older. Then he’d let go, until they were around the corner.

And Donal knew. One day soon he’d open his hand for Peter’s, and it would stay empty. And when that happened he’d die; he’d lie down on the ground. That was how he felt. After twenty years. Independence, time to himself—he didn’t want it.

—You’ll have your own life, someone had told him.

—I have my own life, he’d said back. I fuckin’ like it.