You better stop, it is the wrong 'em boyo

Tired again. I need drugs.

A short story I'm working on:

When Michael’s wagon returns, I can tell it’s him by the squeaks and groans of the steel and wood he’s letting two old nags pull, the pace of their hooves matching the sound of the wagon. So, I can tell what he’s brining back and the size of the load—peat sounds different than potatoes or wheat—and I can tell if he’s got a passenger. So, I had to peek out our kitchen window when it was evident he had someone sitting next to him. It was our Father.

There were lunch dishes that I hadn’t attended to, beds unmade. It had been a busy morning with the boy and just took time for myself for thinking about my circumstances. Just thinking and never praying. Prayer had never worked for me and I’d prayed a lot. Nothing ever came of it. And I couldn’t pray away the mess that Father and Michael were about to walk into.

I closed the door behind me to meet Michael on the steps. “What’s this surprise yer bringin?”

Michael pushed past me and opened the door. “What have ye done all day, woman? I can’t bring Father in here!”

“Then don’t. I wasn’t expectin company, much less royalty.”

Father had hobbled up the steps and startled me as he coughed out, “Been missin you at mass, Rosie. You and your son.”