"Then give them back."
"Your mother arranged this herself. I didn't ask her for anything."
"She wasn't thinking clearly."
"She argued with me about everything. Including whether I should finish school before making decisions about my future."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"Maybe not to you."
I looked toward the living room, where Grandma was holding a book she'd given Eleanor more than 50 years earlier.
"I'm not selling them," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because they mean more to someone I love than the money ever could."
"Who?"
"My grandmother. She grew up with your mother."
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.
