The large man sat stooped in his chair, watching the steam over his cup. When she spoke, turned his eyes up and met hers warily. Did she know what she was suggesting? The children would meet her. They would ask questions. How could he deal with those, when he braced himself to her mere presence, lest memories awoke that he had put to rest. What was the point now, anyway?

When she joked, he flashed a smile that didn't meet his apprehensive eyes. Back in the reformatory, when Mam had suddenly fallen ill, he had not been able to say goodbye to her or ask for forgiveness. Now his indecision had robbed him of the chance to talk to his father one last time. Aye, he did not want the same experience all over.

But he was not her brother anymore. She was a stranger, and her home was no longer his. Homesickness had been one of the first torments had manage to overcome, somewhere in the first month of his sentence, by shrinking from any memory of his family or Billy, and willingly becoming boy 89. The 'Bill' that had returned to them had been neither son nor brother. Their presence had made him feel suffocated, and he had felt relieved when he left several months later. He had been happy to live his own life. How could he be a brother now?

Yet he wavered.

"I wouldn't. I won't ignore yer letters anymore, I promise," he gave in, hoping the admission would buy him time to respond to the other suggestion. "How's Frank?"