Page 48 of Healing Eleanor

I break the silence. “Are we… in Wexley?”

Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

“Yes,” Mom answers without missing a beat. “Edward wanted a quiet night in, so we’re having dinner at my house.”

I sink back into my seat, eyes fixed on the window, my fingers curled, damp with nerves.

Mom and Scarlett shift easily into a conversation about what Mae—Mom’s personal chef—is making for dinner. Their voices blur into background noise as the houses grow larger, more extravagant. The bigger they loom, the smaller I feel.

It’s rare that Mom invites me here. I’ve only been twice, and both visits ended poorly. If it wasn’t for Edward, I doubt I’d be welcome at all.

When she became a private ballet coach for the elite, I got pushed aside since I couldn’t afford her. She made it clear I wasn’t charity; I’d have to pay like everyone else. And she certainly wasn’t thrilled when I made it known I didn’t want her as a coach anyway. Since then, her house has been off-limits.

Once the money started rolling in, she bought a place in Wexley, one of the wealthiest cities in New York, and aligned herself with the snobs. Naturally, Edward and Scarlett fit right in. Polished, successful, presentable, they were the ones who belonged here. Not me.

Mom never misses a chance to show them off. It’s her favorite performance. Look at me! My husband may have walked out, but look at my children. Look how successful they are. Just like me!

But I never make the cut for that performance. I’m not one of her golden trophies. I’m more of an inconvenience. Something she’d rather keep behind closed doors.

Being here sets my nerves on edge. I feel like a rabbit in a den of wolves. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I’m not leaving that house tonight without getting torn apart.

The car slows as we turn onto a cobblestone driveway, each bump rumbling beneath the car. Mom’s house—if you can even call it that—looms in front of us, tall and polished like something out of a luxury magazine. The sprawling white brick exterior gleams under the golden hour sun, its massive black shutters pristine, and its porch pillars standing like guards at the gate. The lawn is perfectly trimmed, not a single blade of grass out of place, and rose bushes line the walkway in carefully manicured rows, their blooms full and blood-red.

It’s the kind of place that screams perfection. It’s controlled, curated, and cold. Just like Mom.

Scarlett lets out a small hum of approval. “Emilio must’ve done the garden again. It looks beautiful.”

I stay quiet. My mother’s house has always been beautiful, but never warm. It’s a house that isn’t made to be lived in, but to be admired. And from the second we pull in, I know this house isn’t just a home to her. It’s her stage. And I’m cast in her production.

The car doesn’t come to a full stop before Mom unbuckles her seatbelt.

“Try not to slam the door,” she says over her shoulder as she steps out.

Scarlett follows, smoothing down her dress again like we’re about to walk into a photoshoot instead of dinner.

I stay put for a second longer, staring up at the house. My stomach churns. I feel like a kid again. Small, invisible, and already in trouble for something I haven’t done yet.

With a breath, I open the door gently, just as instructed, and step out. The scent of roses ambushes my senses. It’s strong, sweet, and almost nauseating. I trail behind them up the cobblestone path, every sharp click of my heels splintering the silence.

Scarlett is already at the front porch, laughing at something Mom says. Probably some inside joke I’m not privy to. She glances back at me, her smile fading momentarily before she looks away. Maybe I should’ve been nicer to her in the car.

I climb the last step and stand beside them. Mom turns the handle and pushes the grand double doors open with ease.

As the doors swing inward, cool air sweeps out, carrying with it the scent of lemon polish, lavender, and roasting meat. Inside, the marble floor gleams, and soft jazz plays from somewhere in the back.

I take one last look at the garden, the roses standing tall in their perfect lines, before stepping over the threshold.

“Scarlett,” Edward grins as he crosses the marble floors, arms already open. He pulls her into a tight hug and spins her in a circle like she’s still ten years old and not a fully grown woman in heels.

I was too preoccupied with the rose bushes to see his car parked outside.

She snickers, clinging to his shoulders. “Put me down before I break an ankle.”

He sets her gently on her feet with a warm chuckle and a kiss to her cheek. “You look amazing.”

“If busy and exhausted is what you call amazing.” She giggles. “But thank you.”

Edward shifts to me, his smile softening just a little. “Eleanor.”