Her mother looked at Franklin, then looked at the sleek black key sitting next to the plate of lukewarm barbecue ribs. For decades, Eleanor Camden had been the quiet shadow in the background, smoothing over Franklin’s outbursts, making excuses for his cruelty, absorbing his dismissals so her children wouldn’t have to face the full brunt of his rage.
“Eleanor, don’t you dare touch that key,” Franklin barked, turning his fury on his wife. “Get back inside!”
Eleanor looked at her husband. Then she looked at Maris. Slowly, deliberately, she walked past her two sons, reached across the wooden table, and picked up the key.
“Eleanor!” Franklin shouted.
“I’ve washed your dishes for forty years, Franklin,” Eleanor said, her voice shaking at first, then steadying into a quiet, unwavering truth. “And you never once asked me if I was tired.”
She didn’t look back as she walked down the driveway toward the gate.
