Chapter 4 The Lavender Heir

Uncle Eamon

Sasha woke early the next morning to the familiar feel of fur brushing against her arm. Moschops’ purring filled the room like stereo, vibrating through the stillness. She stretched out instinctively—and then it hit her.

The letter.

It slammed back into her thoughts like a wave. Her mother’s words, the truth about her father… or rather, the man who wasn’t.

She still couldn’t wrap her head around it. All these years—thirty, to be exact—spent believing a lie. And now? A man she’d never known, across the sea in Ireland, had passed on his blood, his name, and perhaps the parts of her she never understood.

She thought of her reflection: dark hair, almost raven-black, eyes the colour of bittersweet chocolate. Her ‘dad’ had been fair, with cornflower-blue eyes. Her mother, a green-eyed redhead. None of it added up. Maybe it never had.

Her mother’s voice echoed, laced in memory: “You’re so like him.”

Sasha lay still, exhausted from the restless tossing and turning of the night before. She didn’t know if she wanted to chase her roots across the Irish Sea—but she knew she couldn’t ignore them either.

A deep sigh began to escape her lips—when the doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected, jolting her upright.

She leapt to her feet, heart racing, and ran for the door.

She flung the door open, breath still caught in her chest.

A tall man in his late fifties stood on the step, dressed in a long charcoal coat with a scarf loosely draped at his neck. His features were worn, like stone smoothed by time—but his eyes were piercing. Sea-glass blue. Familiar, somehow.

“Miss Lambourne?” he asked, voice calm but clipped, as if he’d rehearsed this greeting.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is …. I… knew your mother. And I believe we may be related.”Eamon, Eamon O’Brien. I’m your mothers brother, your Uncle…..”

Sasha’s hand tightened on the door frame. Her stomach dropped.

She took a slow step back. “Uncle?”

He offered a small, tired smile, and held out a manilla envelope—slightly crumpled at the corners, as if it had travelled far. Her name was written across the front, in handwriting she instantly recognised. Her mothers.

“Before your mother passed, she asked me to deliver this to you—personally. She said it was time you knew the full story. And I promised her I would.”

Sasha stared at the envelope but didn’t move to take it. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“I didn’t come to cause trouble,” he added gently. “But I came a long way. From Waterford.”

She blinked. Ireland.

And just like that, the thread began to pull tighter around her chest—tugging her toward the past, toward the truth, and toward a man she’d never met… until now.

Sasha tried to compose herself, tightening the belt of her dressing gown with fingers that betrayed her—trembling ever so slightly. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a mix of confusion, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.

This was all unfolding too quickly. Too soon. She hadn’t even made coffee. Hadn’t brushed her hair. And yet, here stood a man claiming to be her uncle, holding an envelope that could unravel everything she thought she knew.

She cleared her throat, but her voice came out thinner than intended. “Would you… like to come in?”

Eamon nodded politely. “Only if you’re comfortable.

She stepped aside, instinct overriding reason, and gestured toward the living room. He walked in slowly, taking in the small flat, the scattered moving boxes, the sleeping cat curled into a tight ball on the armchair.

Sasha shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, steadying herself before turning to face him.

“This is a lot,” she said finally. “You’ll have to forgive me—I wasn’t expecting… anything like this.”

Eamon gave a gentle smile. “It’s all right, Sasha. Neither was I. But your mother—she wanted you to know.”

He placed the envelope on the coffee table, as if it carried the weight of an entire bloodline.