She looked at the paper.
“Why is the face crooked?”
He froze. I reached for him. She handed the drawing back like a receipt.
Later, Nate said, “She’s old-fashioned.”
I said, “She’s cruel.”
We both went quiet.
That night, I didn’t realize it yet, but Eleanor was only getting started.
***
Years passed like that. Polite distance. Holiday visits.
Eleanor called once a year on Oliver’s birthday and hung up before he could say much.
Then last winter, she called out of nowhere.
“I think the boy should spend part of his school break with me,” she said.
Nate frowned. “Why now?”
“He needs structure. Discipline.
Continue reading…
