A Small Price to Pay

My darling son Liam,

I have asked the executor of our last will and testament to give you this letter after both your father and I have passed away. Now that we are both gone, I want to share with you a burdensome truth that I have carried with me for your entire life. You were born in 1842 and you were unexpected, but not unwelcomed. We were filled with such joy when I fell pregnant, though our spirits were stripped as the famine began to strike Galway. We thought perhaps it was temporary, but as the season wore on and food became difficult to find, let alone afford, we knew that something catastrophic was happening to our beloved country.

Because I was with child, our families put together all that they had and told us to take one of the ships to America. They told us to escape this and make a new life. I didn't want that. I wanted to be with my parents and my sisters and brothers. But they were all dying - diseases were running rampant as everyone became weak with hunger. My darling boy, I can't describe to you the anguish I felt. I couldn't leave them, but I had to save you.

In the winter of 1842 you were born in one of the many cold, overcrowded mercy hospitals in Dublin. We were better off than most of those poor unfortunates, but we had no home. We could only wait for one of the ships, and that took weeks to find an opening for the three of us. And so, in that time, you came into the world, a healthy baby boy with beautiful green eyes and black hair. My hunger hadn't bothered you in the least. You were so vibrant and wonderful, and as I lay in my hospital bed I felt that God hadn't abandoned us.

It was at that time, days after your birth, that we were told there had been a clerical error. We hadn't been afforded passage on the next ship in a few week's time - that slot had been granted to another family. Our money meant nothing - there simply wasn't enough space on the ships. Along with that terrible news came our time to leave the hospital. There were just so many that we couldn't stay any longer, and with you just a babe in blankets, we were walked out into the snowy street.

Your father went all over the city to find work and shelter while I sat with you in Saint Patrick's Cathedral, cradling you and weeping. There were other mothers there, all cradling their babies, all of them weeping. Some of us were too hungry and weak to make milk anymore. Some of the babies being held had already died, but the mother's just couldn't put them down. I admit that I thought you would die just like the other babies, and I considered going back to Galway to at least bury you with my family.

But then your father came back, and he pulled me aside. In a somber tone he told us that we could get tickets that night for the next ship out. When I asked him how he'd managed it, he just shook his head and wouldn't meet my eyes. His voice was happy but there was something wrong, but I didn't say anything. If it meant saving you, I didn't care what I had to do. That night, we walked to a slender building in the mean part of the city. There were people begging, people fighting, and people sleeping in doorways. Some were dead, the bodies just left there. But your father led us onward, and we came to a black polished wooden door with a silver handle. It opened for us and we walked in, and we were greeted by a gentle old woman with a deep accent, the sort of accent one associates with fairy tales. She was so kind and so nurturing that I immediately felt at ease and let her hold you. She took a liking to you instantly, and you liked her. You laughed for the first time in her arms. Your father explained that she was using her inheritance for charity, and was helping to send families to safety as she could, and she had chosen us. I could hardly refuse her generosity, and we stayed with her the night, dining at her modest but welcoming table and sleeping in her guest bedroom.

I slept more soundly than I had in months, and when I woke I felt refreshed. My weariness had lifted and the pains in my back and stomach were all but gone. We three left for the docks with our benefactor's tickets and were admitted that very day to the ship that brought us to New York, where we have lived ever since in prosperity.

Liam, I have loved you ever since you were born. I have loved you with all my heart and vowed to take care of you. And when I woke up that morning in the old woman's house... when I woke up to discover that your eyes had changed from green to gold and your ears had the softest points to them, I didn't care. You are mine. You are mine and you are loved.

You are my Liam.

And so was my real baby.

You are both my Liam.

May God forgive me.

-        Moira, written 1902 in New York, NY