This Lifetime. | Edward Heffron

XVI.

"Don't get me wrong, honeybunch," her grandmother said, stroking Amelia's cheek gently, "I loved your grandfather, and I miss him every day that he's gone. But my Babe was always going to be different."

Amelia nodded, resting her cheek on her grandmother's palm, "What happened?"

"I heard from his parents he had moved away, and I thought that was the last time I would ever see him," the old woman replied, "I did forget about him eventually, and your grandfather and I moved into a nice big house a few minutes away from my childhood home."

"Henry!" Eleanor called, wandering around the house with a tiny pair of trousers in her hands. With a house so big, it was easy for her son to hide whenever he didn't want to get dressed. Paul was at the office, and clearly she was no longer his secretary. He had fired her, upsetting her just a little bit, but insisted it was so she had more time to write.

At first, Eleanor had all the time in the world to write, and went on to publish two more books. Then she had Henry, and she stopped writing completely. With a round stomach, another baby on the way, Eleanor often wondered how she'd take care of both children on her own since Paul was so busy. She wasn't complaining though— Her life was exquisite.

Their kitchen had marble counters with golden handles, but she no longer cooked, and he called in a cleaner to clean the entire house thrice a week, but Eleanor always sent the woman home and chose to do it herself. In short, the house felt wrong. Too perfect.

"There you are," she squealed, picking up her 4 year old son with hair as dark as his fathers and a smile just like hers, "You cheeky little thing." She pulled his clothes on him, careful not to hurt him, and set him down once he was dressed. Henry was the light of her life, and all the sacrifices she had made along the way were more than worth it.

He was 2 when they had learned she had another baby on the way. Paul lifted her up into the air and spun her around, happy to be getting another Gibson. Eleanor hoped it'd be a girl. Sometimes, she also hoped it'd have red hair. But that was impossible.

Eleanor was carrying Henry in her arms when the doorbell rang. Her son snored peacefully in her arms, and she put him down gently into his bed as to not rouse him from his sleep. The doorbell rang again, and she hobbled down the stairs slowly, her stomach heavy in front of her.

"Hold on," she called, holding unto the railing as she reached the lowest step, slightly out of breath. It was always scary for her to climb down the stairs now that she was later on in her pregnancy.

Eleanor swung open the door, nearly falling over.

Babe stood on her doorstep with a basket of eggs.