“You asked,” Eleanor replied, setting down her bag. She noticed the photograph on the hall table: a family of five, smiling in 1987. Her father, Arthur, with his kind, distracted eyes. Vivian, sharp and beautiful, holding baby Luke. Claire, already too serious at ten. And Eleanor, at eight, standing slightly apart, as if she already knew she didn’t quite fit.
“She has been for four years. She didn’t tell you because she said you’d find a reason to disapprove. That you’d say she settled, that he wasn’t good enough, that she was just trying to fill a hole.”
“You asked,” Eleanor replied, setting down her bag. She noticed the photograph on the hall table: a family of five, smiling in 1987. Her father, Arthur, with his kind, distracted eyes. Vivian, sharp and beautiful, holding baby Luke. Claire, already too serious at ten. And Eleanor, at eight, standing slightly apart, as if she already knew she didn’t quite fit.
“She has been for four years. She didn’t tell you because she said you’d find a reason to disapprove. That you’d say she settled, that he wasn’t good enough, that she was just trying to fill a hole.” “You asked,” Eleanor replied, setting down her bag