I promised to return with a van.
Then I went home and continued Eleanor's letter.
The next paragraph changed everything.
"James, there is something worse than my keeping our connection secret. Years ago, your family needed help. I knew. And I did nothing."
I read it again.
I was nine when Dad lost his job.
I remembered Mom crying in the kitchen.
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.