My father stared despondently into his bottle of whiskey, his jaw twitching. There was a great, rolling storm visible in the black depths of his eyes. I could tell this wasn’t an easy subject for him to discuss.

I waited patiently. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “Much as it embarrasses me to say, it was fear, pure and simple. I was afraid that John Pete would seek vengeance where he knew he could hurt me most – you. I knew he would never hurt Margaret.”

Margaret was my mother. “Mum knew the whole time that he was wanting vengeance, then,” I said.

My father shook his head. “No, I kept that from her, too. Didn’t want to upset her. As far as she knows, I lost touch with him years ago, after the duel.”

“The duel?”

“Aye, your uncle was so enraged when I proposed to your mother that he challenged me to a duel. He somehow had it in his thick skull that he was the one who was meant to marry her, and that I had beat him to it. As if she didn’t have a say in the matter.” My father laughed mirthlessly.