Grandma arriving with groceries and pretending she'd bought too much.
I remembered losing our house.
Eleanor explained that an old acquaintance had told her Margaret's family was struggling.
Years earlier, she'd promised Grandma that if either family ever needed help, the other would be there.
"I could have called," she wrote. "I could have written."
"But I was ashamed of what I'd done to Margaret, and terrified she'd reject me. So I convinced myself staying away was kinder."
"It wasn't kindness, James. It was cowardice."
I put the letter down.
The woman who'd made me feel valued had once turned her back on my family.
I wasn't angry about the money.
I was angry because she'd known.
Had she been kind to me because she felt guilty?
Had I reminded her of my grandmother?
For the first time, I wondered whether I'd misunderstood our entire relationship.
I needed answers.
So I called Grandma.
"Did you know someone named Eleanor?" I asked.
