She’d never admitted that to anyone.
“She can’t do that,” Marina said over speakerphone, her voice tinny and sharp. Eleanor could picture her perfectly: jaw set, arms crossed, standing in the kitchen of her perfect suburban home while her perfect husband made gluten-free pasta. “That house is half mine.”
“She didn’t know how to love two daughters differently,” Eleanor said. “So she loved the one who needed her more in the moment. And we both spent forty years fighting for a turn.”