IRISH LOVESTORY - Guilty

 

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Guilty

All week, a heavy fog settled over me. My legs felt like lead, my body unbearably dense, and even the smallest effort left me drained. Something was wrong—I could feel it, pulsing under my skin—but I could not name it. When my period didn’t come, panic gripped me like a vise. I bought a pregnancy test, heart hammering, hands trembling. The result appeared. Positive.

The world tilted. It couldn’t be true. Sunny and I hadn’t been careless, at least not entirely—but even a single misstep could bring a life into being. My first thought cut through me, precise and cold: I didn’t want this. Not here. Not now. Perhaps not ever with him. Yet, what was done was done.

Sunny’s reaction offered no solace. His eyes mirrored my shock, but his words gave nothing—no comfort, no plan, no hope. He admitted bluntly that he wasn’t ready, that he had neither money nor stability, that a child was impossible under our circumstances. And in that stark moment, I knew: whatever came next, the decision, the weight, the burden, would fall entirely on me.

My mind scattered, skittering from one fear to another. Each path seemed unbearable. If I stayed in Ireland, I had no options—the procedure was illegal here. I would have to leave, abandon everything I knew, and do it quickly. I didn’t even know how far along I was.

I wandered the streets, trying to summon courage, trying to steel myself for the unbearable. I was about to end a life already begun, and every step felt like a betrayal of some sacred trust. The guilt pressed on me, iron and relentless. I wrote home. My mother and sister responded with horror, but steady voices.

“Come back right away. We’ll figure something out. But don’t stay there,” my mother urged.

Their support was a balm but could not erase the shame. This was my fault. I had been reckless. Careless. I tried to imagine the child, and my chest constricted. A boy? A girl? One afternoon, a tiny red shoe appeared on the street—a girl’s shoe. I froze. My chest ached with imagined tenderness.

“So, you would have been my daughter,” I whispered to the empty air, and tears blurred my eyes.

The day before I was to leave, I went to Carlow to book my flight. Every step carried the weight of inevitability—and a single, impossible desire: to see Jack, just once more. Not to linger. Not to hope. Only to see him.

And then, as if summoned by thought alone, he appeared.

I laughed aloud. His shirt was smudged with dust and grime from the building site. He stumbled over his words when I told him I was leaving tomorrow.

“Wait here a second—I just need to run into the bank. Or no, better—go into that pub across the road. I’ll be right there,” he said, already darting away before I could answer.

I smiled at his nervous energy and waited, heart thrumming. Minutes later, he returned, breathless, sliding onto the bench beside me.

“What are the chances? I was just thinking how much I wished I’d see you—and there you are,” I laughed, nerves and joy mingling.

“Really?” he said, shaking his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Why are you leaving?” he asked, voice gentle, searching.

“I don’t want to… but I have to. I’m pregnant,” I whispered, shame burning through me.

Jack’s face changed instantly—serious, alert, his eyes sharpening.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly.

“I’m sure,” I said, voice trembling.

His words caught, unspoken panic hanging in the space between us. “You’re not going to keep it?”

I dropped my gaze, tears rising. “No. Sunny… he wants me to go home. To end it. He says it’s best.”

Jack’s eyes darkened, and I heard the low mutter of frustration: “What an idiot.”

It happened, quietly, almost without thought. Neither of us planned it, neither of us wished it. And yet here it was. I couldn’t carry this life—not like this, not under these conditions. And, deep down, I realized perhaps I didn’t want to.

We talked, circling memories, lighter moments, laughter breaking through the heaviness. For a while, he carried me away from it all. With him, I felt strength returning, courage sparking, readying me for what must come. He understood, better than anyone else. He admitted he sometimes wondered what might have been if Alice hadn’t kept Julian. And then he said he was glad it never came to that, because now he had a son he cherished above all else.

That evening, we parted as friends.

But later, as I packed my suitcase, grief returned in full force. This couldn’t be the end. I had to tell him. I sent a message, trembling: that I had thought of him, every day, always. His reply was a single line, yet it carried everything:

I love you too.