Dear Father F,

YOU will remember being a regular visitor to our lovely home when I was a young girl, the middle one of three daughters in a happy family where the absence of a son was inconsequential to my loving parents.

My mother was an excellent hostess whose dinners were much enjoyed by you and, occasionally, by another priest in your religious order, who was at that time excited at the imminent prospect of being made an uncle by his sister in Cork.

That evening you, my parents, two teenage sisters and I were seated at the dinner table when my mother asked if the Cork baby had arrived. You said: “Oh! Yes, five weeks ago.” When your hostess expressed surprise that you hadn’t told us the good news, you said: “Sure it was only a girl.”

Aged 15 at the time, I wanted to stand up and say: “How dare you”? and walk out of the dining room, but knew this action would only further offend my dear parents.

I considered sending a strongly worded, caustic letter to your monastery, but instead I related the occasion to a Loreto nun in my school, who said God would be happier with me if I prayed for you instead.

The next time you came to dinner, I lied to my mum, saying I had too much homework to do and would eat my dinner in the kitchen while doing it, by way of silent protest. (You were too conceited to notice, I’d guess).

About 15 years later, you died a painful death from cancer and I’m almost ashamed to admit that on hearing of your suffering, nemesis came to my mind.

I hope in heaven you have heard that this mere baby girl became a well-known literary figure while holding a prestigious position in public life. Now in my 80s, I’m still haunted by your misogyny 70 years ago and prefer to believe that God loves us all equally, male or female.

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