My hands tremble as I write this, because now I understand how low my thoughts truly were.
Eleanor never forced me to pretend I loved her.
She never demanded that I hold her hand in public.
She never asked:
“Do you really love me?”
It was almost as if she already knew the answer.
But every evening, she cooked dinner for me.
I would come home tired, wearing the same cold expression, and she would smile as if my arrival were the best part of her day.
“Nathan, wash your hands. Dinner is ready,” she would say gently.
I would sit down, eat, and often not even say thank you.
One day, she noticed that my shoes were torn.
The next evening, there was a new pair waiting by the door.
“You needed them,” she said.
“Yeah. They’re nice,” I replied.
And that was all.
I did not hug her.
I did not thank her properly.
I did not even stop to think that the woman I was using was still trying to take care of me.
That winter, she bought me a new coat.
“Don’t go outside dressed like that,” she told me. “You’ll freeze.”
And inside, I thought:
“I don’t need your coat, Eleanor. I need your house.”
