The woman who'd made me feel valued had once turned her back on my family.
I wasn't angry about the money.
I was angry because she'd known.
Had she been kind to me because she felt guilty?
Had I reminded her of my grandmother?
For the first time, I wondered whether I'd misunderstood our entire relationship.
I needed answers.
So I called Grandma.
"Did you know someone named Eleanor?" I asked.
Silence.
"Which Eleanor?"
I told her.
Something clattered.
"Grandma?"
"I'm here."
"She died last month."
Another silence.
Then, quietly, "Oh, Ellie."
I'd never heard her sound like that.
I explained that Eleanor was once under my care.
I couldn't tell her about my feelings.
I visited the following morning.
Grandma took one look at the photograph and started crying.
"We were inseparable," she said. "She used to climb through my bedroom window carrying books."
"What happened?"
She looked down.
