Siobhan ran around the house, looking for the locket. Where could it be? A lovely gold locket Martin had given her on their last anniversary, their final anniversary before he died thirteen years ago. She’d originally put a picture of Mama and Daddy, but after Martin died, she put his photo in it. The last she’d seen it, it lay on Agnes’s bureau in her third floor bedroom.
“Why on earth, do I have to have a headcold when I’m running around the house like this?” All day long Siobhan had been doing errands around the house – cleaning up after Annie Kate, making breakfast for Patrick before he went to the rectory, writing letters to parish women, organizing a Lenten breakfast for the church’s indigent members. Being the priest’s brother did make life complicated at times – too much work, she’d have to tell him, please ask Patrick to do it. It pleased Siobhan that Patrick had finally gone to work for his uncle.
Her mother-in-law was another matter. Annie Kate might be eighty and entirely self-reliant, but she loved to boss her around. Ever since Martin had died and Annie Kate had moved in, ostensibly to help care for Patrick and Agnes, Siobhan had felt like a servant in her own house. “Don’t burn the vegetables, don’t use a wet cloth on my piano, don’t put starch in with the underclothes, don’t, don’t, don’t …” had Siobhan running ragged more than twelve years now. Oh, mothers-in-law!
She had a sore throat, her head was stuffed, her neck glands swollen, and she had the chills. Oh, off to bed! She’d look for Martin’s locket tomorrow. She needed her rest.
“Siobhan,” Annie Kate trumpeted from her room, “come here and take my empty teacup down to the kitchen.”
It would never end.
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