Natalia Lynch moves around the kitchen like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One arm holds Sean, the three-year-old who refuses to be put down, his chubby hands clutching at her shirt like she’s the only thing keeping him steady. The other hand is busy making lunch, slicing through bread with practiced ease. Ollie, nine years old and always nearby, sits at the table, swinging his legs, waiting. He doesn’t ask where their mother is. He doesn’t ask where their father is. He knows better.

Marie is in her bedroom, the door shut tight, lost somewhere inside her own mind. The weight of her absence hangs over the house, but no one talks about it. Teddy isn’t home either—not that anyone expects him to be. When he is, it’s worse.

Joey, seventeen, is probably in his room, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the day he can finally walk out of this house and never look back. Shannon, fifteen, keeps herself busy, trying not to care but failing every time she sees Natalia with Sean on her hip and exhaustion in her eyes. Tadgh, eleven, is somewhere in the house, caught between being a kid and knowing too much.

Natalia doesn’t let herself stop. If she does, if she thinks too hard about how unfair it all is, it might break her. And she can’t break. Not when there are hungry mouths waiting, not when Sean calls her “Mam” like it’s the most natural thing in the world, not when there’s no one else to hold this family together.