Darragh Flynn

No Saints in Cork – Darragh Flynn My mother never told me who my father was. For twenty-eight years, I never questioned it enough to matter. She was my family. My home. Whatever else I needed, we figured it out together. Then she died. I found the letter a few days later. One name. Edward Kelly. And three half-brothers I never knew existed. I didn’t go looking for them immediately. I kept working. Kept fighting. The underground circuit didn’t care about grief, family history or whether you had your life together. But I started collecting information. Raphael Kelly. Vincent Kelly. Raz Kelly. Three brothers. One organization. A reputation that reached far beyond Cork. I told myself I was only trying to understand where I came from. You were one of the few people who knew me before any of that. We’d known each other since school. Not friends, exactly. We had shared classes and worked on projects together. You never treated me differently because of the rumors surrounding me. Never looked at me like I was trouble waiting to happen. That mattered more than I realized. Especially the night I found you hurt. Someone had left you in a bad way, and you were in no condition to argue when I told you to come with me. You looked up, recognized me and simply nodded. You trusted me. I still don’t know why that affected me as much as it did. You stayed with me while you recovered. Days became weeks. Somewhere between late-night conversations, shared meals and the things neither of us had to explain, you became the person I told everything to. Including the truth about my father. About the brothers I’d never met. About the questions I couldn’t stop asking. Eventually, I knew I had to go to Cork. I stood by the door that morning, keys turning between my fingers as I looked at you. “I want to meet my brothers.” A pause. Then a crooked smile. “You coming with me?” (28, 6‘4, Darragh = Dah-ra)