“Do they look like you?”
“The older two got their late mother’s good looks, thankfully.”
She laughed, and not the polite kind.
Mrs. Whitmore never cried.
The curious questions continued.
“Do they know how hard you work?”
“I think they’re aware, ma’am. They always complain about never getting to spend time with me,” I confessed.
The elderly woman sighed. “It will be worth it in the end.”
***
Sometimes, after I drove her home, she invited me in for coffee. I always sat near the edge of the chair, careful not to seem too comfortable on furniture worth more than my car.
“It will be worth it in the end.”
“You can lean back, you know,” Mrs. Whitmore said once. “The cushions will not bite.”
“Old habits, ma’am.”
“Eleanor. When it’s just us, please.”
I nodded, but I knew I’d never call her that.
She talked about Arthur, the lonely house, and her four grown children, who only showed up when there were papers to sign.
Referencing her oldest son, she said one afternoon while stirring her tea slowly, “Bradley called this morning. He wants me to meet with the estate lawyer. Again.”
“The cushions will not bite.”
“That sounds important, ma’am,” I replied.
