So when her lawyer called after the funeral, I knew something was wrong.
"Eleanor arranged something for you before she died," he said. "It's not in her will. She asked me to explain it in person, and there's a deadline approaching."
I agreed to come the next morning.
That night, I kept remembering how everything started.
Eleanor was sitting beside her window, holding a book she couldn't read because she'd misplaced her glasses.
"I could read to you," I'd offered.
She looked suspicious.
"Don't use that awful cheerful voice people use with old ladies."
I laughed.
That became our routine.
I read during my breaks, and we argued about the characters.
She remembered everything I told her.
My exams.
My worries.
Even something I'd mentioned three weeks earlier.
Mom loved me, but she'd spent years worrying about bills and keeping our family together.
I'd learned not to add my problems to hers.
