Margaret O'Shea turned from the stove long enough to call to her daughter,
"Kathleen, finish setting the table, please. Your brother will be here in
ten minutes."

Kathleen shut her book with a sigh and got up to get the silverware out of
the drawer. "Okay, Mom."

Margaret lifted the lid of the pot to check the lamb stew. **Almost done.
Good.** She turned to see that her daughter had finished laying three
places at the well-worn old kitchen table.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Kathleen bounded into the living room to
answer it. "Aidan's here, Mom!" A moment later, Margaret was being embraced
from behind by her son. He dropped a kiss on her cheek with a warm smile.
"Hi, Mom." He held up a plastic Wawa bag with a grin. "I brought
dessert...is that lamb stew I smell?"

She laughed softly, hugging her tall, redheaded son back. **He looks /so/
much like Dan...** Out loud, she said, "Thanks; you can put it down on the
counter and have a seat - supper's almost ready."

The family sat down to eat; Margaret said grace and then ladled out three
hearty portions of stew. There was companionable silence for a while as
everyone dug in; after dinner, the three of them lingered at the table,
enjoying the eclairs Aidan had brought and talking.

"You remember Father Joe, don't you?" Margaret inquired of her son.

Pausing over a cup of hot tea and the remains of an eclair, Aidan nodded.
"The one who said Dad's memorial Mass? I've seen him at church a couple of
times since then - how's he doing?"

Margaret's face fell. "Not too well - he had a stroke just before Christmas
vacation started." She blinked back sudden tears. Aidan put a hand on hers,
his eyes darkening with concern. Taking a deep breath, she found her voice
again. "Everyone's praying for him..." She bit at a knuckle, not wanting
either of her children to see her cry. "What a thing to happen just before
Christmas!"

Aidan came over to put an arm around his mother's shaking shoulders. "Hey,
don't cry...I'm sure he'll be okay." **Even if /you/ don't believe it's
that simple, maybe you can get /her/ to...** he thought to himself.
Reaching deep inside himself, he let a bit of Glamour wash over his mother,
and for one instant, the kitchen smelled of spring flowers. **I can give
her some hope, at least...**

The warmth of the Glamour washed over her, and he felt her shaking subside;
she looked up and gave him a shaky smile. For just a moment, things looked
brighter. **All I can do for now...unless I can get in to see Father Joe...**

He was so wrapped up in comforting his mother that he didn't notice his
sister watching from the other end of the table....