“What does that mean?”
For the first time, she looked genuinely sad. “It means some mistakes live longer than people do.”
***
Two weeks later her chair at breakfast stayed empty.
There was no answer when I knocked on her bedroom door.
“Everything happens eventually.”
When I peeked inside, it looked like she was still sleeping, but I knew… I knew.
Eleanor was gone.
***
The funeral was on a Saturday.
The nieces wore black and stood at the front, but I stayed at the back.
During the reception, Marlene marched up to me.
“You won’t get a dime,” she whispered. “Not if I have any say. Not the house. Not the silver. Not the spoon you stir your coffee with.”
Eleanor was gone.
“Marlene, this isn’t the place.”
“It’s exactly the place. She isn’t here to protect you anymore.”
I did not answer.
***
A week later the phone rang.
