Because nobody outside of Ireland reads it and most in Ireland don’t know her. It’s Safe, unimportant and 24 hour news cycle at best. We shouldn’t give them any more than that.
Jamie didn’t know how he came to be there, looking from the outside into
the life he had wanted.
After finishing his surgery – a simple affair, finding suitable concentration
the only difficulty posed by it – his footsteps had led him to the maternity
ward on the third floor. He had visited it seldom, as he recalled; once to call
on an OR nurse who had just given birth, and on one occasion to consult on a recent
mother with abdominal pain. It was the gate of life and surgeons tended to work
closer to the other side.
Several newborns occupied the nursery. Some with tufts of soft,
creamy, brown hair; some with a cowlick made of sunflower yellow; a couple with
an endearing bald scalp, that left the family to wonder and coo about possible
resemblances to their progenitors; and in one case, that left Jamie’s chest
painfully constricted at the sight, a mass of conspicuous red hair. The ward
was sweltering, seemingly emanating the heat of a mother’s womb – fooling the babies
into forgetting the traumatic experience of coming into this world, after inhabiting
a room that was theirs alone. But
above all, it heated his skin with the warmth of promise. Could, should, will.
Tori