Chapter 8 - The Shadow of the Past
Just as the garden began to bloom, an old acquaintance appeared.
Her name was Beatrice.
She was a remnant of my old social circle.
She wore pearls like armor.
She looked at my garden, then at my clothes, and she sneered.
"Is this it, Eleanor? Gardening?"
I looked at her, then back to my tomato plants.
"It’s a hobby, Beatrice."
"It’s a degradation," she corrected. "You used to host the best galas in the state. Now you’re playing in the dirt."
I felt a spark of the old Eleanor, but I suppressed it.
"I’m playing with my daughter-in-law," I said calmly.
"You’re losing your grip on reality," Beatrice whispered. "There are rumors about the estate. There are rumors about the bankruptcy."
I stood up.
I didn't look at her with fear.
I looked at her with pity.
"The estate is fine, Beatrice. And my life is finally my own."
She looked around the yard, searching for a flaw.
"You’ll regret this," she said. "When you’re forgotten, when the name is gone, you’ll miss the gala."
"I won't," I said.
She left, her car kicking up dust in the driveway.
The threat of losing the house hung over us, but I didn't panic.
I had faced my own darkness.
I had faced my own failures.
I didn't have the energy to care about Beatrice’s opinion.
I gathered the tools.
I went back to work.
We were stronger than she knew.
We were built on something she could never understand.
We were built on truth.
And truth, I was learning, was the only thing that lasted.
I went inside, made some tea, and started working on the Foundation's budget.
I had an estate to run, a family to support, and a truth to protect.
May you like
I was Eleanor Whitcomb.
And I was finally, irrevocably, free.
