Despite hard work, sound planning, lifestyle adjustments, and unusually well-behaved Irish genes, I find myself—to paraphrase Yeats—“where all the ladders” end.
I spent hours into the night in my small convent room, praying that I would get through the next day's lessons without breaking down or bolting. Bolting from Edward.
A low voice emerged: “Welcome to my home. Please, sit.” My host and I shook hands, and I took the chair opposite. I remember the details because he was a terrorist.