“You’re working late again,” Eleanor noted, sitting down in one of the leather armchairs facing the harbor.
“Just wrapping up the Q3 forecasts,” Maris replied, leaning back against her desk. “How was the ceramics studio today?”
“Wonderful,” Eleanor smiled, a genuine, quiet warmth filling her eyes. “I signed the lease on the small storefront in Capitol Hill. The landlord was surprised when I paid the first six months upfront in cash.” She paused, looking down at her hands—hands that were no longer red from endless household chores, but neat, manicured, and strong. “It feels surreal, Maris. For forty years, I asked permission for a twenty-dollar grocery overage. Now I own my time.”
“You earned your time, Mom.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. No performance, no quiet barbs masked as concern, no competition for space.
“I saw Franklin’s lawyer’s latest letter,” Eleanor said gently, referencing the final divorce settlement papers that had arrived earlier that week. “He had to sell the house in Idaho. Moving into a two-bedroom rental near the interstate. Colton and Derek are living with him now.”
