Once, I found her crying over an old photograph.
She quickly tucked it beneath her pillow.
“Bad news?” I asked gently.
“Old news.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”
I nodded and began gathering the books I had brought.
As I stood, she caught my wrist.
“Don’t go yet.”
So I stayed.
She never showed me that photograph.
Not then.
A few months later, Eleanor’s condition deteriorated.
She became weaker, slept longer, and struggled to finish meals. The doctors were honest with her about what remained of her life.
One afternoon, I arrived to find her staring at the ceiling.
“Daniel?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you believe people get second chances?”
I pulled a chair beside her bed.
“Sometimes.”
“Even after forty years?”
“That depends on what happened forty years ago.”
She turned her head toward me.
“You really should learn to give less annoying answers.”
“It’s one of my few talents.”
