Page 143 of Healing Eleanor

My mouth goes dry. I stare down at my hands, fumbling with my fingers, trying not to show just how uncomfortable the question makes me.

Two weeks ago, when Lily gave me her mom’s number, I kept my promise and called the very next day. I didn’t realize at the time how sought after Evelyn was in her field. She was booked solid, but somehow squeezed me in two weeks later.

Those two weeks passed in a blur. Lily came by almost every night, while Gabriel and Dillon only managed two or three visits a week, usually apologizing about being drained from back-to-back performances. Especially Gabriel.

I was surprised they came at all, honestly. Between rehearsals and shows, they had more than enough on their plates. Yet they still showed up for me. Bringing food, laughter, and comfort I hadn’t known I needed.

But the one person I want to see most never comes. Never calls, or even texts.

Nik is completely radio silent.

Whenever I ask about him, the answer never changes. It’s always: moody, distant, and agitated.

I hoped he would’ve reached out by now, but that’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t guarantee you’ll get what you long for. Sometimes it just means you’re left sitting in the ache of its absence, heart breaking right alongside it.

“When I was a child, I guess,” I answer, barely lifting my eyes to her.

Evelyn leans in just a little. “You guess, or you know?” Her tone is even, not accusing. “I know this is hard, Eleanor. And you are brave for just being here. But if we want to get to the root of the cause, we need to start with the hard facts.”

“Don’t you mean truth?” I ask quietly, sidestepping her question. Because looking back, the truth of my life has been nothing but strict rules and ballet. Neither one ever bending.

“No,” she says, reclining in her chair. “I mean facts. Facts are subject to change. Truth never changes. What you’ve experienced isn’t the truth of who you are, Eleanor. It may have been a fact of your life, but you have the conscience—and the courage—to change. That’s why you’re here now.”

I melt into the soft couch and meet her eyes. What she’s saying makes sense in a way I’ve never considered. It makes me wonder how much I don’t know about myself—and how much I still have to learn.

“I know,” I say, answering her first question. “My mom.” I pause, gathering myself. “Enforced a strict diet. By the time I was nine I could count calories faster than I could answer math problems.” I try to make it a joke. “My brother and sister, though… They got cake at birthday parties and after-school treats. I got rice cakes and portioned meals.”

“And why do you think that was?” she asks, pen moving across the paper.

I draw my knees toward my chest as much as the boot on my ankle allows. “Because I was the only one who showed an interest in ballet when I was small.” My throat swells. “My mom used to dance. She had to quit when she got pregnant with Edward at sixteen. I think she wanted one of her kids to take that dream for her.”

Evelyn lifts her eyes to me. “And that person was you?”

I dip my chin. “Edward followed in our father’s footsteps, Scarlett wasn’t coordinated, and I fell in love with it when Mom showed us old tapes of her dancing.” A brief, bittersweet smile slips across my face.

Evelyn mirrors it. “Where is your dad now?”

I shrug. “Either off in space or buried six feet under, I honestly don’t know. He left right after I was born.” I watch her pen move and add, “My whole family kind of resents me for it.”

She pauses, eyebrows lifting. “They resent you?”

“It’s never been said straight out,” I say, “but I’ve always felt like an outcast, like I exist to fulfill whatever ballet dream my mother never got to finish. Edward and Scarlett had the chance to get close with each other, while I just got to be… here.”

Evelyn nods, jotting a few more notes before pausing. When she looks up, her gaze lingers on me, thoughtful. “So—you’ve always had a strict diet, set by your mother,” she states, flipping through her pages. “And you feel she pushed you to fulfill a dream she once had.” She taps her pen against the paper. “When do you feel your eating habits spun out of control?”

She shuffles through another sheet. “Your records from when you left the Metropolitan in April state that you were one hundred and thirty-five pounds. At your visit for surgery, you were ninety-eight.” Her eyes lift to mine. “That’s a loss of thirty-seven pounds in less than four months.”

The sheer magnitude leaves me breathless. “I… I…” The words catch in my throat. “Before I got fired from the Metropolitan, my coach told me I looked like a whale onstage.” I cringe at the memory. “He implied I’d get the principal role if I was willing to… cooperate.” I drop my gaze, shame burning hot in my chest. “When I didn’t… I was fired.” My fingers twist together. “I was desperate to be picked up by another company. I thought if I got into perfect physical condition, someone would finally notice me.”

“I see. That experience could lead anyone down this path. Help me understand a little more.” Her voice is calm and steady

“It started small,” I admit. “Just counting calories again. But then… the rejections kept coming. And it stopped being about health. It turned into punishment. Like I didn’t deserve to eat unless I made progress.”

Evelyn’s brow furrow. “Was food used as a form of punishment when you were a child?”

I sink deeper into the couch, the memories pressing in. Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. “She would,” I whisper. “If I messed up in class, my mom would take food away. Or make my portions smaller as punishment.” A hot tear slides down my cheek. “She said it was the only way I’d learn the weight of my decisions. That actions always have consequences.”

Evelyn leans forward, her pen now resting motionless in her hand. Her eyes soften, though her voice remains firm. “Eleanor, what your mother taught you wasn’t truth—it was control. Food should never be a punishment or a reward. It’s fuel, a need, just like breathing.”