The sharp clink of ceramic against wood cut through the kitchen like a warning bell. “I can’t keep doing this, Rachel,” Paul said coldly, his coffee trembling in its cup. “She’s our grandmother,” I replied, stunned. But Paul had changed—success had hardened him. He saw Eleanor, who once raised us with love and sacrifice, as a burden now. “She just paints and stares out the window,” he snapped.
I reminded him how she had once stitched our clothes, cooked every meal, and turned a broken home into something whole. But to him, it was about money. “If she can’t contribute, she can’t stay.” That night, I called Eleanor. Her voice was soft, uncertain. “I think Paul wants me to leave.” I told her to come live with me. “You’re not a burden,” I said. When I picked her up, she only had two bags—her clothes and her paints. Paul didn’t help. But as we drove away, she placed her hand on mine and whispered, “Thank you, Rachel.” And as we turned onto my street…
