PART 2 : The Wealth of a Home
My mother’s eyes darted from the photos to the floor, then to the warmth radiating from the kitchen. She looked for the misery she had weaponized in her mind for three years, but she couldn’t find it.
“What is this?” she whispered again, her voice cracking, losing its icy edge.
“It’s my life, Mom,” I said softly, stepping up beside her. “We built it.”
Anna stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. She didn’t look angry or intimidated. She just offered a quiet, genuine smile. “Hello, Eleanor. Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
My mother didn’t answer. She stared at Anna, then down at Leo, who had paused his building to look up at the elegant, strange woman in our doorway.
“Dad,” Leo asked, tagging my sleeve, “is this the grandma you told me about?”
