He carefully pulled the easel back off the picture and withdrew a faded photo he'd hidden there eight years ago. He'd managed to keep the photo a secret, from his brothers and his father, all these years. Maybe that was his talent, Sean mused as he stared at the only surviving photo of his mother-he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

He'd been just three years old when Fiona Quinn had walked out of their lives. His father's anger and sadness had cast a gloom over the house and he'd begun to drink heavily and gamble more than usual. Two years later, Seamus told them their mother had died in a car crash. All traces of her had been wiped from the house. Though his brothers had grieved for a time, they had quickly moved on.

But Sean remembered. He remembered the spot, now empty, in front of the stove where she used to stand. And her smell-he remembered that she always wore perfume and a red apron. When he'd found the photo, caught behind a kitchen drawer, he'd tucked it away, preserving the only evidence he had of Fiona Quinn's existence.

He rubbed his thumb gently over her face, as if he were touching her. She was the prettiest lady he'd ever seen. She had beautiful shiny hair and twinkling eyes. And a smile that made him feel better just to look at it. And she was kind and understanding. She was his angel, and whether she was dead or alive, he still felt her presence.

"Ma," he murmured. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her saying his name. In some secret corner of his mind, before memories even began, he found the sound and it was soft and calming, making the anger he held so tightly inside of him dissolve.

A knock sounded at the door. Sean scrambled to return the photo to its hiding place. When he'd shoved the box back into the drawer, he laid down on the bed. "I don't want to talk to you!" he shouted, knowing it would be Brian. His brother hated it when people were mad at him.