Silence.
"She never told us that."
"She didn't tell me either."
I told her I understood why our relationship raised questions, but I wouldn't accept being called a manipulator.
She started arguing again.
I ended the call.
I was finished begging people to believe me.
That evening, Grandma went to bed early.
I stayed at her kitchen table with Eleanor's letter.
There was one final page.
The handwriting was shakier than the rest.
"Dear James, there is something else I owe you. When you told me you loved me, I believed you. I still do."
"But I sometimes wondered whether the love you felt was different from the love you thought you were offering."
"You told me nobody had ever taken you seriously. You were surprised when I remembered things you said. You looked astonished when I asked about your day."
"Those things should never have been extraordinary. Perhaps you weren't searching for a wife as much as someone who would listen, someone who would be proud of you, someone who would make you feel safe."
