Previously on Hellnah to Easter, I fell in love with Gerald over cremated chicken. He vanished to Cork like a coward, and I've been hiding in France pretending to be someone named Colette who only speaks in wine orders. Easter's over. Which means the chocolate has been consumed, the peeps have been sacrificed to the microwave gods, and I'm officially out of excuses to avoid my problems. My mother texted me. Just three words News about Gerald.
Now any normal person would maybe feel a flutter of hope. A little romantic anticipation. Maybe think, oh, perhaps he's been searching for me this whole time Not me. I immediately went into full panic mode. It took me exactly ten minutes to throw my entire life into a suitcase, booked the first available flight back to Ireland, and I'm not proud of this, threatened a Ryan Air flight attendant with violence if she didn't offer the pilot personal favors to fly faster. Good news.
We landed 20 minutes early. Bad news, I'm now permanently banned from Ryanair. Do you understand how difficult it is to get banned from Ryanair? They let people bring live chickens on board. They've had passengers literally fist fight over armrest and still welcomed me back. They've had passengers literally fist fight over armrest and still welcomed them back. But me? Passana non grata. I'm out here setting records.
The Journey Home AKA why I should never be allowed near customer service workers. I landed in Dublin with zero fanfare. No parents waiting for me, no Shane revving his tractor in the pickup lane like I'd hoped. I was really counting on Shane being there. The man drives like Lewis Hamilton on a caffeine bender, and I was desperate Desperate to get home and find out what my mother knew about Gerald. But no. Boo, Shane, Boo. So I took a cab. Now, here's where I might be the villain of this story.
My cab driver was a lovely man named Seamus, who had the misfortune of having an asthma attack halfway through the drive. He had to pull over on the side of the road, wheezing, fumbling for his inhaler. And what did I do? Did I offer comfort? Ask if he needed help? No. I yelled at him for driving slower than a turtle running a marathon. In my defense I was stressed. But yes, fine, I may have caused the asthma attack with my aggressive backseat commentary. I'm the villain, I accept this.
Twenty minutes later, after Seamus recovered and I apologized profusely and tipped him like fifty Euros. We finally arrived at the house. Plot twist Daddy Dearest returns. I walked into the house, fully prepared to interrogate my mother about Gerald's whereabouts. Instead I was greeted by the most handsome man on the planet. No not Gerald My father.
Standing there in a designer suit that probably cost more than Shane's entire tractor, with his arm around a woman who looked like she'd been imported directly from a Kardashian spinoff. She had that I definitely have a ring light in my purse, energy. This, apparently, was soon to be wife number two. And she was pregnant. I stood there, frozen, luggage still in hand, trying to process the absolute audacity of this man showing up unannounced after years of radio silence. Surprise!
My mother chirped from the kitchen way too cheerfully. Turns out she knew I'd probably stay in Paris longer to avoid Easter drama. So she tricked me into coming home early so my father could ambush me with whatever manipulative nonsense he had planned. Thanks, Mom. Real solid parenting. Shane versus my father. The rematch nobody asked for. Ten minutes after I arrived, Shane came home. He walked through the door, saw my father standing in his living room, and I swear I saw his eye twitch.
Twenty minutes later the house looked like a UFC octagon. Furniture was overturned, my mother was screaming, wife number two was crying in the corner, clutching her baby bump like it was a shield, and Shane and my father were locked in what can only be described as a full scale brawl. It took the armed police showing up and threatening to shoot them both to finally break it up. Final score, my father, one broken arm, bruised ego, possible concussion.
Shane, absolutely nothing, because he is from Ireland and can win a fist fight with a grizzly bear. The man is unbreakable. The real reason dear old Dad showed up. So why was my father in Ireland, you ask? Turns out he needed my mother to sign the divorce papers. Shocking, I know. After years of being legally married but emotionally divorced, he suddenly wanted to make it official. But here's the kicker. My mother wanted her lawyers to review the documents first. Standard procedure, right?
He refused. Red flag? Yeah, red flag. While my father was being questioned at the police station for public brawling, and possibly assault depending on how generous the officers were feeling, I had a little heart to heart with wife number two. Her name was Brittany, with two T's. Of course it was. She seemed sweet, naive, but sweet, so so I did what any responsible daughter would do. I sat her down and delivered a TED talk on why my father was the worst human being on the planet.
I covered the cheating, backed by photographic evidence I definitely didn't hack from his old iCloud account, the emotional abandonment, the time he missed my high school graduation because he was at a charity event strip club, his general vibe of man who would sell you to pirates for a boat upgrade. She cried for an hour. Then she left. Last I heard she's living with her sister in Tampa and has started a podcast about narcissistic athletes. Good for her.
The FBI Tax Fraud and My Father's Downfall. My father came back later that evening, arm in a sling, looking like a defeated extra from Law and Order. He tried the whole I'm a changed man routine. Said he wanted a second chance to know his daughter, that he'd made mistakes but was ready to be a real father. I smiled, nodded, said I'll think about it. Then I immediately Googled him. Turns out, Daddy Dearest was wanted by the FBI. Not for murder or anything cool.
No, this man had a tax payment problem. As in, throughout his entire multimillion dollar NBA career, he paid zero taxes. Not a single cent. The IRS was about to seize everything. His houses, his cars, his offshore accounts, all of it. Which is why he was really in Ireland. He didn't want to reconnect with me. He wanted to get his hands on my inheritance fund and my mother's secret cash reserves.
Basically, he wanted to con her out of everything she'd worked for so he could continue living his luxury lifestyle while the feds closed in. Absolutely not. Gerald's grand entrance and my father's swift exit. I told my mother everything. Showed her the FBI warrant, the articles, the whole shebang. She was livid. And then, like something out of a soap opera, Gerald appeared. Yes, Gerald. The man who ghosted me and moved to Cork.
He showed up at our house completely unannounced, looking like a rugged Irish romance novel cover. Apparently, Shane had called him and said, Get over here. It's chaos. Within two hours, my father was on the first plane out of Ireland with two broken legs. I didn't ask questions. Shane and Gerald were suspiciously quiet about the details. All I know is that my father spent ten days in a local hospital before fleeing to Thailand, where apparently he thought he could hide from the FBI. Spoiler.
He could not. His assets have been seized. Our inheritance is safe. Our inheritance is safe. My mother and Shane are stronger than ever, and me? I'm staring at Gerald, who's sitting on our couch drinking tea, acting like he didn't disappear for two years. Coming up next So here's where we are. My father is in a Thai prison, probably. Wife number two is thriving in Tampa. Shane is a hero. My mother is vindicated. And Gerald is back. Could this finally be our happy ever after?
Or is Gerald about to reveal that he's secretly in witness protection or engaged to someone else or God forbid, a Ryan Air pilot who's out for revenge? Find out in episode three of Hell Na to Easter. Stay tuned.