Chapter 4: What Eleanor Wanted to Say
They arrived the next afternoon.
My assistant, a composed young woman named Priya, came to my office door and said simply, "There are three people in the lobby asking for you.
They don't have an appointment."
"I know," I said.
"Tell them I'll be down in five minutes."
I took ten.
When I stepped out of the elevator, my mother saw me first.
She stood up so quickly her chair scraped back.
My father rose beside her, slower, his hands clasped in front of him.
Eleanor stayed seated for a moment, then stood when she realized she was the only one still sitting.
My mother looked older.
Six months had done something to her face that I hadn't expected — a softness around the eyes, a tightness around the mouth, the particular look of a person who has been crying more than sleeping.
"Sienna," she said.
"Mom."
She moved toward me.
I took a small step back.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
She stopped.
My father cleared his throat.
"You look well," he said.
"I am well."
"The article—" he started.
"Let's go somewhere private," I said.
I brought them to a small conference room on the second floor.
No windows facing the street.
A round table.
Four chairs.
I sat with my back to the wall.
Eleanor hadn't spoken yet.
She sat across from me with her hands flat on the table and her eyes moving between her parents and me as though she was calculating something.
My mother started.
"We should have come.
I know that now.
I knew it then, if I'm honest with myself, but your father said—"
"I'm not interested in what Dad said," I told her.
"I was there for that conversation."
My father's jaw shifted.
"Sienna, I understand you're angry—"
"I'm not angry," I said.
"I was angry for about three weeks.
Then I stopped."
He blinked.
"What I am," I continued, "is finished.
There's a difference."
My mother's eyes filled.
"Please don't say that."
"I'm not saying it to hurt you.
I'm saying it because it's true, and I think you deserve to hear something true from me after everything."
Eleanor spoke for the first time.
"What does finished mean?"
"It means I don't need anything from you anymore.
I'm not waiting for an apology.
I'm not waiting for an explanation.
I built a life.
It doesn't have a place in it for people who chose a dinner reservation over my children's funeral."
The word landed.
Eleanor flinched.
My mother pressed her fingers to her mouth.
My father leaned forward.
"The Foundation — why didn't you tell us?
We could have helped.
We could have—"
"You could have come to the funeral," I said.
"That was the only thing I ever needed from you."
Silence.
Then Eleanor said, "There's something you don't know."
"Eleanor—" my father said sharply.
"No." She turned to him.
"She deserves to know.
She has always deserved to know." She turned back to me.
"Dad told us not to come.
Not because of the reservation.
He told Mom and me that you had Julian's family, that you didn't want us there, that you had specifically said you needed space."
The room went very still.
I looked at my father.
His eyes dropped to the table.
"Is that true?" I asked him.
He said nothing.
"Dad." Eleanor's voice was hard now.
"Tell her."
He picked up his water glass.
Set it back down without drinking.
"I thought," he said slowly, "that it would be easier.
For everyone.
You and Julian's family were close.
We were not.
I thought our presence would cause more — "
"You lied to them," I said.
"You told them I didn't want them there."
He didn't answer.
"And then you told me you weren't coming because of Eleanor's birthday."
My mother made a sound I had never heard from her before.
Small and broken and too late.
I stood up.
"I need you all to leave now," I said.
"Sienna—" Eleanor reached across the table.
"I'm not angry at you," I told her.
"But I need you to leave."
My father finally looked up.
And for the first time in my life, I watched him try to find words and fail completely.
I walked to the door and held it open.
None of them moved for a long moment.
Then my mother stood, and my father stood, and Eleanor stood last.
As she passed me, she pressed something into my hand.
A folded piece of paper.
May you like
"Read it when we're gone," she said quietly.
"It's from Julian."
