CHAPTER 13: SAYING GOODBYE

Winter brought word that Eleanor was seriously ill. I went to see her again, and held her hand while she slept. She died three days later, quiet and at peace.
We had a small funeral. No one pretended she’d been perfect. We remembered the good—the woman who’d worked two jobs to send me to college, who’d held me when I cried—and laid her to rest with all her mistakes.
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