She met Tammy during those dark years. Tammy was just like her—lost, broken, and angry. They drank together, two ghosts drifting through the city, holding onto each other so they wouldn’t sink alone.
One night, desperate and withdrawing, they broke into a liquor store. It was dark and quiet. Tammy said, “Just grab what we need.” Eleanor, drunk and barely conscious of her actions, followed. They smashed the glass, grabbed bottles and cash. They were caught two days later. Police. Handcuffs. A courtroom. Eleanor got a year of probation—her first offense. Tammy went to jail.
Eleanor stayed out of trouble for a while, but she didn’t stop drinking. A few months later, she ran into Tammy, who was out on parole. They got wasted for old time’s sake. In an alley, a young woman—well-dressed, probably a college student—made a comment about them being a “public nuisance.”
Tammy snapped. She went for the girl. Eleanor, fueled by a lifetime of self-loathing and booze, joined in. They beat her badly, not stopping until bystanders pulled them off. The girl ended up in the ICU with a concussion and broken ribs.
Eleanor was arrested again. This time, she got two years in state prison. Prison was a nightmare. Cold, violent, and lonely. Но it was there, in a cell, that Eleanor finally dried out. Not for a day or a week, but for months. And she saw herself for what she was. A monster. An addict. A woman who had destroyed her son’s life and nearly killed a stranger just because she couldn’t face the truth.
The prison had a small library. Eleanor started reading. The Bible, recovery books, anything she could find. She read to fill the void. One day, she found a quote: “It is never too late to be what you might have been.”
When she was released, Eleanor made a choice. No more. She left the city, left Tammy, and left her old life behind. She found this cabin in the mountains where no one knew her. She took a job cleaning houses and tending gardens. She raised chickens and grew her own food.
That was fifteen years ago. She hadn’t touched a drop since. But the memory of who she was never left her. At night, she’d lie awake thinking of that liquor store, that poor girl in the alley, and the boy she’d abandoned. The shame was a physical weight. But she stayed. She prayed. She worked until she was exhausted. She hoped that maybe, one day, God would forgive her.
Andrew stood in the middle of the cabin, staring at his mother. His hands were shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
— “Why are you here?” Andrew asked, stepping forward. “Is it money? Did you find out I was successful and decide to crawl out of the woodwork?”
He pulled a roll of hundreds from his pocket and threw it on the table. The bills scattered across the wood, a few fluttering to the floor.
— “Take it,” he said with a sneer. “Buy yourself a case of bourbon. Buy ten.”
Eleanor looked at the money, then at her son.
— “I didn’t know, Andy,” she whispered, wiping her face. “I had no idea you were even in this state. I’ve been sober for fifteen years. Ever since… ever since I realized what I’d become.”
Andrew laughed—a harsh, bitter sound.
— “Sober?” he mocked, crossing his arms. “What, are you a saint now? Praying for me every night?”
— “I ruined your life,” Eleanor said, her voice trembling. “I know that. I live here to try and make peace with it. I’m ashamed of what I did to you. Please, Andy. Forgive me, if you can.”
Andrew stepped closer, looming over her.
— “Forgive you?” he asked quietly, his voice dripping with venom. “Where were you when I was being bounced from foster home to foster home? Where were you when the older kids stole my food and the social workers looked the other way? Where were you when I was sleeping in a basement in the middle of winter because the heat was out?”
Eleanor buried her face in her hands, weeping.
— “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m so sorry.”
— “Dad, stop yelling at Grandma Ellie!” Paulie cried, running out from the corner. He stood in the middle of the room, small and tearful, looking at his father as if he were a stranger. “She’s nice,” the boy sobbed. “She saved me. Why are you being so mean?”
Andrew froze. He looked at his son, then at his mother. The cabin was silent, save for the ticking of the clock.
— “Let’s go,” Andrew said hoarsely, grabbing Paulie’s hand. “Now.”
— “But—!”
— “I said now!” Andrew barked, and Paulie went silent.
They walked out onto the porch. Paulie turned back, waving a small hand at Eleanor. She stood in the doorway, hugging herself, watching her son get into the Cadillac.
— “This place smells like a lie,” Andrew spat over his shoulder, refusing to look at her.
The engines roared to life. Paulie pressed his face against the glass, watching Eleanor until the car disappeared around the bend. Eleanor watched until the dust settled and the road was empty again.
Andrew sat in his leather chair by the floor-to-ceiling window of his Chicago penthouse. The city stretched out below him like a glowing map, but he saw none of it.
A week had passed since that day. A week that felt like a year. He tried to work, opening files and signing contracts, but the words blurred. All he could see was her…
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