In my first post, I shared why this journey begins with a cuppa.
I wrote about the sign in my kitchen, the problems Mum is expected to solve, and the conversations that can begin when someone pulls out a chair and puts the kettle on.
Now it is time to tell you more about the story behind the cuppa.
My story begins with grá.
Grá is the Irish word for love.
And for me, grá begins with a man named Paul.
Paul and I were only 21 and 22 years old when we met. Six months later, we did what every sensible young couple with their entire lives ahead of them would do.
We secretly got married.
Apparently, patience and carefully considered decisions were not the foundation of our marriage.
But love was.
We had no idea what the future would hold, but we knew we wanted to face it together. For the next 23 years, that is exactly what we did.
We created a home filled with family, sporting schedules, school bags, muddy shoes, laughter, disagreements, and the beautiful chaos that never feels particularly beautiful while you are cleaning it up.
Then one day, you look back and realize those ordinary moments were the life.
Paul became an amazing husband and a devoted father to our boys.
He was the kind of father who coached from the sidelines, encouraged from the stands, and made sure his boys understood that being part of a team was about more than winning.
Paul did not limit that belief to his own children.
He believed every child deserved the opportunity to play—whether that child was the best player on the field or was still trying to remember which direction to run.
His coaching philosophy was simple:
“There’s no picking; we’re only kicking.”
Paul did not just build teams.
He built places where people belonged.
He was a coach, a runner, a Liverpool supporter, and one of the founders of a hurling club.
If there was a game to attend, a child to coach, a race to run, or an Irish sporting event happening anywhere within a reasonable—or completely unreasonable—distance, Paul was interested.
Our lives were busy, loud, and ordinary.
And I loved them.
That is the strange thing about ordinary life.
We spend so much of it hurrying to the next practice, the next appointment, the next weekend, or the next cup of tea that we do not always recognize the extraordinary gift hidden inside it.
We assume there will always be another morning.
Another car ride.
Another game.
Another disagreement over something completely unimportant.
Another opportunity to say what we did not say today.
Grá taught me that love does not live only in anniversaries, grand gestures, and perfect photographs.
It lives in packed lunches.
Car rides.
Sideline conversations.
Inside jokes.
Arguments about whose turn it is to do something neither person wants to do.
It lives in cups of tea made without asking.
It lives in knowing how someone takes their tea—and knowing when they need one before they do.
It lives in showing up again and again until two individual lives become one shared story.
For 23 years, Paul and I wrote that story together.
It was not a perfect story.
There were disagreements, disappointments, stressful days, unfinished jobs, and conversations that probably would have gone better if both of us had eaten first.
There was also laughter.
There was friendship.
There was family.
There was the comfort of knowing that whatever happened outside our front door, we would face it together.
When you are building a life with someone, you rarely stop to consider how much of yourself becomes connected to them.
Your routines become shared.
Your memories become shared.
Your plans, responsibilities, worries, celebrations, and dreams become shared.
Even your language changes.
It is no longer just “I.”
It becomes “we.”
Where are we going?
What are we doing this weekend?
What do we need from the store?
What will we do when the boys are older?
Paul and I believed we still had decades of “we” ahead of us.
We expected to watch our boys grow up together.
We expected more games, more family celebrations, more ordinary Sundays, and more arguments about the television.
We expected to grow old together.
That is the risk we take when we love someone.
We begin to write them into every version of our future.
Then our lives changed with four words no family is ever prepared to hear:
Grade IV brain cancer.
Suddenly, the future we had written for ourselves began disappearing one page at a time.
But grá did not disappear.
Love became the reason we fought.
It became the reason we continued making memories.
It became the reason we protected laughter even when fear had entered our home.
It became the reason we kept showing up for one another on days when none of us knew what came next.
Grá could not cure Paul’s cancer.
It could not stop time.
It could not give us the ending we desperately wanted.
But love made every moment worth fighting for.
And when love was no longer enough to change the outcome, we discovered something else growing beside it.
Grit.
But that is a conversation for our next cuppa.
Pull up a chair. I’ll put the kettle on.