My brother came occasionally but never stayed long.
My mother was different.
No matter how difficult Eleanor became, Mother kept returning.
She drove her to medical appointments.
She prepared her meals.
She cleaned the large, lonely house when Grandmother became too weak to manage it.
She sat beside her through countless nights of illness.
I remembered asking my mother once why she continued sacrificing so much for someone who rarely thanked her.
“She’s still my mother,” she told me. “Love is not always easy, Clara. Sometimes it is simply choosing not to leave.”
My grandmother died three years before my mother.
Her will had caused an enormous family dispute.
Most of her visible property had been divided among distant relatives and charitable organizations.
There were rumors that she had hidden money elsewhere, but nothing was ever found.
After months of searching and arguing, everyone eventually gave up.
Everyone except my mother, perhaps.
Sitting on the couch with the shawl around my shoulders, I began wondering whether it had belonged to my grandmother before it belonged to Mother.
I checked the edges and found a tiny stitched letter near one corner.
An “E.”
Eleanor.
