So we were a couple months away from my boyfriend’s little sister’s wedding, and if you have never been on the inside of the planning of an Irish wedding, you are very lucky. It’s a frenzied affair, almost typical of Hollywood movies where the mother of the bride lives vicariously through their only daughter’s wedding, complete with the “flapper” Roaring 20s theme!
I had been dating and living with my then-boyfriend for over two years at this point, and had been subjected to far too many Sunday family dinners of overcooked lasagna, burnt garlic bread and mundane conversation regarding the fading ambitions of his parents and their children’s halted careers. This Sunday was no different: the dinner was cottage pie that was a mish-mash of textures that was close to inedible and the family was stalking in, each sibling and their partner gathering around a table scrolling through their phones. This was no warm family get together with laughter and joy, but closer to – and colder than – a summons with a Death-Eater.