My name is Eleanor Whitfield, though everyone who loves me calls me Ellie. At seventy, I can say I spent more than forty years believing there was one person I would never have to question: my daughter, Natalie. Her father, Thomas, died when she was fifteen, leaving me a widow with a mortgage, bills, and a teenage girl who needed me. I worked days keeping books for a dental supply company and nights cleaning offices. Through bitter winters, I wore Thomas’s old flannel jacket so Natalie could have a proper coat. I paid for her piano lessons, college tuition, and half her wedding. Whenever she needed something, I found a way. That was how I loved her.
Years passed. Natalie built a successful career, married Greg, bought a beautiful home outside Milwaukee, and gave me two grandchildren, Lily and Owen. But gradually, I became someone she rarely had time for. Calls went unanswered. Christmas visits became hurried appearances. Then, on my seventieth birthday, she said they couldn’t come because Greg had a company event. Two days later, I discovered photographs of the entire family enjoying a weekend at his parents’ mountain cabin. Natalie stood beside her mother-in-law, calling her “the best grandma.” I read those words three times before putting on my coat and walking next door to Judith.
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