Her eyes widened.
“How did you know about that?”
“I just found out today. Apparently, that’s where the money from my house went. The house I sold to pay for your education.”
Elsie had the grace to look ashamed, if only briefly.
“Dad said that was an investment we all agreed on.”
“An investment,” I repeated. “Yes, that’s exactly how he described it to me as well. Funny how differently we interpreted that word.”
I sighed, suddenly tired of the conversation, of the pretense, of the years of being used while being kept at arms length.
“Elsie, I’m going away for a while. I need some time to think about what happens next.”
“Going away?” she echoed, finally noticing my half-packed suitcase. “Where? For how long?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I answered truthfully. “But I’ve spent years making myself available to a family that only wanted me when it was convenient. It’s time I lived for myself for a change.”
Elsie stood, her expression hardening into something that reminded me painfully of Sandra.
“So, you’re abandoning us when we need you most?”
The irony of her statement was so profound that I almost laughed.
Instead, I went to my bookshelf and removed a photo album, opening it to a page I knew by heart.
I handed it to Elsie.
“This is you at 6, staying with me the summer your parents were separating,” I said, pointing to a photo of a gaptothed Elsie holding a paintbrush.
“And this is you at 12, the Christmas your father was too busy with his new girlfriend to pick you up. This one is your high school graduation, where I sat in the back row because Sandra said there wasn’t enough room in the family section.”
I gently took the album back.
“I have never abandoned you, Elsie. Not once in 23 years. I cannot say the same for any of you.”
The morning train to Portland rolled steadily through the countryside, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against tracks matching the beating of my heart.
I gazed out the window, watching small towns and verdant fields pass by.
Each mile increased the distance between me and the remnants of a family that had treated me as an afterthought.
I had left before dawn, leaving no forwarding address, no note explaining my absence.
For once, they would experience what I had felt for years.
The unsettling emptiness of reaching out to someone who simply wasn’t there.
My phone had been buzzing intermittently since yesterday.
I’d silenced it after Elsie’s visit, but occasionally glanced at the screen.
Missed calls from James, Sandra, Elsie.
Even Franklin had tried once, undoubtedly pressured by his new wife.
I imagined them huddled around a phone, strategizing how to reach me, how to regain control of the situation, of me.
I turned off my phone and slipped it into my purse.
Helen was waiting at the Portland station, her silver hair gleaming in the late morning sun, her arms open wide.
We embraced like the old friends we were, tears mingling with laughter.
“Let me look at you,” she said, holding me at arms length. “Still elegant as ever, but thinner. Have you been eating properly?”
I laughed softly.
“Always the mother hen.”
“Someone has to be,” she replied, linking her arm through mine as we walked to her car.
Helen’s cottage sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic, the endless blue horizon stretching beyond the weathered deck.
White clapboard walls, blue shutters, and a garden bursting with late summer blooms.
It was everything she had described in her letters.
“It’s beautiful,” I said as we carried my suitcase inside.
“It’s peaceful,” Helen corrected, setting a kettle on the stove. “And exactly what you need right now.”
Over tea and homemade scones, I told her everything.
The wedding, the name tag, the forged power of attorney, the confrontations.
Helen listened without interruption, her expression shifting from shock to outrage to sorrow.
“Oh, Ellaner,” she sighed when I finished. “I’ve always thought James was too influenced by that woman, but this… this is beyond the pale.”
“I enabled it,” I admitted. “For years. I made excuses for them. I told myself they were busy, that family dynamics change as children grow older.”
“I convinced myself that being occasionally remembered was better than being completely forgotten.”
Helen reached across the table, covering my hand with hers.
“What will you do now?”
I looked out the window, watching seagulls wheel against the clear blue sky.
“I’m not sure. For the first time in decades, I’m making decisions just for me. It’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.”
That evening, we sat on the deck watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.
The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below was hypnotic, soothing.
“I’ve been thinking,” Helen said, breaking our comfortable silence. “My neighbor Irene runs the local art center. They’re looking for someone to teach beginner watercolor classes a few afternoons a week. It’s nothing fancy, mostly retirees and summer visitors, but—”
“I haven’t painted in years,” I interrupted gently.
“But you were good, Ellanar. Remember that summer in Provence after Henry died? Your landscapes captured something special, a quality of light, a sense of peace.”
I smiled at the memory.