The fight was a distant blur now. A belligerence of teenage angst versus Eleanor’s own anxieties as a single mom. Harsh words were flung like grenades.
Sarah slammed the door for the last time, echoing within the newly silent home for years to come.
Guilt and self-doubt became a strict head of household.
Had she been too critical?
Too controlling?
Had she pushed her only child away?
The questions gnawed at her when she awoke each day, catalyzing a new cycle of relentless self-blame.
The answers churned a repetitious vortex of the inevitable: She was a terrible mom. Although the crux of that could never stand the light of day, self-punishment was the ruling role of existence. She dropped out of touch with old friends. Merlot became her new one. The house degenerated. Birthdays, holidays, milestones –- all regurgitated a hollow ache.
Fifteen years passed before that moment Eleanor uncharacteristically answered her phone from an unknown caller.
“It’s me.”
Eleanor couldn’t respond.
The voice continued, “I’m sorry.”
Within that first call, she became a mom once more.
And a grandmother.
by George Alger
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