Eleanor sat on the edge of her green velvet sofa, holding a damp handkerchief.
“I was wrong, David,” she said, her voice trembling. “The stress of the holiday, the winter weather, it made me lose my head.”
I rubbed my gold wedding ring, saying nothing.
“Please let me see my grandson,” she added, looking up at me. “Just for an hour.”
She reached out, but I stepped back toward the door.
“Maya is still in the hospital,” I said.
“I know,” Eleanor said, wiping her cheek. “I want to make things right with her too. I wrote her a letter.”
She handed me a folded piece of heavy cream stationery.
“Give her this,” she said. “Please.”
I took the envelope and slipped it into my coat.
“We will talk after the bank finishes the audit,” I said.
My mother stopped wiping her eyes and looked up, her expression tightening.
“That is still going forward?” she asked.
