She’d left me the friendship she’d lost.
My phone rang.
Eleanor’s daughter.
“I heard you collected my mother’s books,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what they’re worth?”
“Yes.”
“So she left you money after all.”
“She gave me books.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, James.”
I walked into the hallway.
“You expect people to believe a 22-year-old boy wanted to marry my mother because he loved her?”
“I know how it looks.”
“Then give them back.”
“Your mother arranged this herself. I didn’t ask her for anything.”
“She wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“She argued with me about everything. Including whether I should finish school before making decisions about my future.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Maybe not to you.”
I looked toward the living room, where Grandma was holding a book she’d given Eleanor more than 50 years earlier.
“I’m not selling them,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because they mean more to someone I love than the money ever could.”
“Who?”
“My grandmother. She grew up with your mother.”
Silence.
“She never told us that.”
“She didn’t tell me either.”
I told her I understood why our relationship raised questions, but I wouldn’t accept being called a manipulator.
She started arguing again.
I ended the call.
I was finished begging people to believe me.
That evening, Grandma went to bed early.
I stayed at her kitchen table with Eleanor’s letter.
There was one final page.
The handwriting was shakier than the rest.
“Dear James, there is something else I owe you. When you told me you loved me, I believed you. I still do.”
“But I sometimes wondered whether the love you felt was different from the love you thought you were offering.”
“You told me nobody had ever taken you seriously. You were surprised when I remembered things you said. You looked astonished when I asked about your day.”
“Those things should never have been extraordinary. Perhaps you weren’t searching for a wife as much as someone who would listen, someone who would be proud of you, someone who would make you feel safe.”
“Perhaps you were looking for a mother’s love.”
I stopped reading.
Eleanor continued.
“I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong about love before, as Margaret could certainly tell you.”
“But whatever name you give your feelings, please know that you made my last months happier than I thought they could be.”
“I should have told you about Margaret. I should have helped your family when I had the chance. I cannot undo either failure.”
“When you gave me that ridiculous candy ring, I wanted to believe I had all the time in the world. I didn’t.”
“You do.”
I wiped my face and kept reading.
“I hope one day you find a woman who sees everything wonderful in you and has the years ahead to share a life with you. Someone you can grow old beside.”
“And please tell Margaret I loved her. I never stopped.”
I folded the letter.
For a while, I was angry.
She’d worn that gummy ring.