In 1910 a young couple called Agnes and Alexander McCann and their two small children were living in Belfast. Theirs was what we call today a mixed marriage. Agnes, a Protestant, and Alexander, a Catholic, had married two years previously in a Presbyterian church.
But Alexander had come under pressure from his parish priest, who informed him that the pair were living in sin and insisted they should be married in a Catholic Church.
Agnes, however, saw herself as legally married and refused to go through a second ceremony.
The pressure on Alexander intensified. One day he and the couple's two babies, a little boy and a little girl, just disappeared. The Church had won.
Agnes was distraught. She walked the streets, asking everyone she met if they had seen her children.
A Presbyterian clergyman called attention to her plight. Her story may be little remembered today, but in 1910 it was big news, and not just in Ireland.
There were protests in London and even as far away as Australia and New Zealand. Questions were asked in the House of Commons and in the House of Lords.
In Belfast the public response followed time-honoured tradition. There were riots.
Everyone was getting their spoke in - churchmen and politicians, different religions, different sides of the community, all keen to make their point.
How much thought, though, did any of them really give to the human heartbreak at the centre of the story?
A young family torn apart, a mother desperately searching for her stolen babies.
That all happened over 100 years ago. One of the saddest aspects of the story is that it doesn't read like ancient history.
Even today, in the 21st century, marrying someone from "the other side" can still bring trouble.
A new publication from the Northern Ireland Mixed Marriage Association tells the stories of several couples who were forced to leave here in the more recent past for the heinous crime of falling in love with someone from another religion.
It's entitled Exiles In Love, which, despite sounding a bit Mills And Boon-ish, accurately sums up the predicament they and many others faced: having to choose between leaving behind families and friends and all they knew, or remaining in a place where they had to deal with abuse and often very real threat.
Many couples still face that hard choice.
All the stories in the book are a mix of shocking, saddening, heart-warming and touching. These are true love stories.
Jimmy McClelland and his wife Anne, who now live near Durban in South Africa, were forced to flee as the Troubles intensified in the 1970s.
"Mixed marriage was never our problem, but other people made it theirs," he said.
The couples who tell their stories in the book describe the hostility they faced. Paint daubed on their homes. Animosity from the neighbours. The fear of attack. They left because they had no option.
How many other couples were forced into exile too? How many other marriages and relationships faced with such pressure didn't last the course?
The book is part of a series produced by Nimma and sponsored by the Irish Department of Foreign Affairs' Reconciliation Fund. It's aimed primarily at secondary school children.
The series is written and edited by Paul McLaughlin, a tireless and dedicated worker for Nimma and a quiet hero in promoting reconciliation.
Nimma argues not just acceptance of mixed marriage, but for more availability of integrated education and shared social housing.
In the book the story of Agnes and Alexander is told by Nimma chairman Ken Dunn in his short but powerful history of inter-church marriage in Ireland.
It is not a story with a happy ending. Alexander, it later transpired, had been helped to relocate with the couple's son and daughter to far-off Pittsburgh in America. Alone in Belfast with her grief and her despair, Agnes McCann never saw or heard from her children again.
Sometimes I find myself totally out of step with the arts world. In a word: Banksy. I don't get Banksy.
Sure, he seems to be a talented stenciller, and yes, much of his work is quite clever in a T-shirt slogan sort of way.
But as for profound statement: a little girl letting go of a heart-shaped balloon? It's hardly Picasso's Guernica.
Nonetheless, Mr Banksy's art is regarded as extremely cool and commands big bucks. It adds to the mystique of his brand that he keeps his identity secret.
This week he allowed himself to be filmed completing an installation on a London Underground train carriage.
It featured a sneezing rat. Banksy is big on rodents. And a nod to quarantine. "I get lockdown. I get up again."
Experts have suggested that the Banksy-decorated Tube carriage could have been worth £1.5m had it been put up for auction.
Unfortunately, the cleaners got to it first. They uninstalled his installation.
It seems they didn't recognise the greatness they were obliterating. Questioned later by bosses, they did say they remembered cleaning off some "rat thing".
The workers were only doing their job. Transport for London has a zero-tolerance approach to graffiti. Even the arty stuff.
Banksy has now been invited back to redo his stencilling in a more appropriate place.
But the whole point of graffiti is that it it's inappropriate.
Cleaning it off is the real art. Banksy might even agree. In sales terms, he's been cleaning up for years.
Someone in authority needs to sort straightforward rules on masks. It's all very confusing. Not least because there are many sorts of masks. Chancellor Rishi Sunak has been pictured out and about in one with a valve. But apparently the valve makes the thing worthless since it allows coronavirus germs a free escape route. It's too leaky, Rishi. Is the Depp mask any better though? The actor favours a striking bandanna wrapped around the bake. Stylish, yes. Effective? The jury's out on that one.
Scariest transportation story of the week was the report of the near-miss (in 2018) between the Stena Belfast to Cairnryan ferry and a nuclear submarine. There were almost 300 people on board the ferry. The nuclear sub underestimated the ship's speed and came within 50 to 100 metres of it, which in submarine social distancing terms is frighteningly close. What was a nuclear sub doing there in the first place? Are they expecting Vladimir to invade the Isle of Man? None of this is terribly reassuring.