Sloan called that evening, Ruth fussing in the background. “Can I ask you something without it being a whole thing?”
“Depends on the something.”
“Did you ever hate me?”
Eleanor stood at the kitchen sink looking out at the darkening pool. Hate was a clean word people reached for when they wanted the past to be simple enough to litigate. “I hated what you were willing to do to something sacred so you could feel taller for a second. That’s not the same as hating you. Hating you would’ve been easier. It would’ve let me stop hoping you’d grow.”
Sloan was quiet except for Ruth’s small sounds. “I’m growing,” she said. “Slow. Ugly sometimes. But growing.”
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Growth doesn’t owe you a parade.”