before. The bulb flashed and realization dawned. I remembered the picture I’d seen of Anne standing in a group beside Michael Collins and the picture of Thomas and Anne, the suggestion of intimacy in the line of their bodies and the angle of their gazes. Those weren’t photos of my great-grandmother at all. They were pictures of me. “Was Thomas in love with Anne?” I’d asked my grandfather. “Yes and no,” Eoin had answered. “Oh wow. There’s a story there,” I’d crowed. “Yes. There is,” he’d whispered. “A wonderful story.” And now I understood.
