This Lifetime. | Edward Heffron

XVIII.

"Nana," Amelia whispered, as her grandmother had tears welling in her eyes, "I'm so sorry."

The old woman shook her head vigorously, biting back her tears, "No. It was the right thing to do. I would never be able to forgive myself if I left my husband. Your uncle was young, and I was pregnant with your mother."

Amelia understood the importance family was, it was the same reason she had chosen to stay as well. "So what really happened to the letters?"

Eleanor's shoes crunched in the gravel, the sound so familiar, she felt like a teenager again. Her round stomach and the tiny hand holding onto hers were the only indication that things have changed. Her childhood home stood, alone like it always did, the sun setting behind it, making the fields of grass look golden.

"Nana!" Henry exclaimed, running towards the old woman who was sitting on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her fragile form. Her mother lived alone now, her siblings having moved out or gone off to college— A luxury Eleanor did not have. But she was from an entirely different time.

Her mother smiled upon seeing them, but surprise was written all over her face. "You forgot to lock the front door again, mother," Eleanor said, her frustration hidden by her care. "I brought you food."

"Oops," her mother muttered, standing up slowly to give her a hug. She was sick, and Eleanor could tell, but her mother refused to both be taken to the hospital or live with them. Instead, Eleanor came twice a week to take care of her. She wasn't supposed to come until tomorrow, but what she had to ask couldn't wait.

She hugged her mother tightly, now much taller than the woman, and Eleanor then helped her sit back down. "Henry," she said calmly, placing him on the ground with some toys she had brought.

The older woman looked at her, knowing something was definitely wrong. "What is it, El?" she asked, pushing back a strand of her daughter's hair behind her ear.

Eleanor didn't know what to say, and she hated herself for never knowing what to say. How could one accuse their mother of such thing?

Her mother seemed to have realized, because the next thing she said lifted the weight off of Eleanor's chest. "You found out, didn't you?" Eleanor was right. She exhaled sharply.

"Why, mother?" she whispered, her tears threatening to fall once more, "Why did you do it?"

"You were so scared," the older woman replied, her face filled with remorse, "You were scared and there was nothing I could do." She gripped Eleanor's hand in hers, planting a tender kiss on her daughter's hand. "I thought," she took a deep breath, "I thought if you hated him, everything would go back to normal."

"But nothing is back to normal," Eleanor pulled her hand away, and her mother looked shocked.

"It wasn't healthy for you, my dear," her mother continued, "I just wanted to take care of you."

"I made a promise to wait for him, mother," Eleanor said, her voice barely above a whisper, "And you let me betray him."

Her mother stayed silent, realizing that the daughter she only tried to protect was even more hurt now.

"I live in a beautiful home with a man who never stops reminding me how much he loves me. I have everything I wanted, but it's not normal, and I'm not happy." Eleanor was crying again, for the thousandth time that week.

Her mother held onto her shoulders tightly, now crying unto her daughter's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, and they sat there with their arms around each other, trembling.

Eleanor was angry. She was angry at her mother for not mailing her letters. She was angry at Babe for not coming to see her right away. She was angry at Paul for being so kind and loving and too good for her. But most importantly, she was angry at herself because she couldn't blame any of them.

Her mother stood, wobbling on her feet towards the cabinet that held their precious plates. The old woman kneeled, reaching under the cabinet and taking out a dusty brown box. She sat there for a few seconds, wiping away her tears.

"I knew you would find out eventually," her mother began, pushing the box towards Eleanor's feet,"I saved his letters for you as well."

Picking it up quickly, Eleanor dusted off the top of the box and opened it, her eyes greeted by a stack of letters. She started to cry again, and her mother stood to get her a glass of water. "I'll give you time alone," she whispered.

"Eleanor," she paused by the kitchen door, "I was wrong."