Nobody ever did.
After the service, as everyone filed out for the reception, Eleanor’s lawyer, Mr. Harold Whitman, had approached me quietly. He was a distinguished man in his seventies, with silver hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Jenna, might I have a word with you privately?” he’d asked, glancing around to ensure we weren’t being watched.
We’d stepped into a small side room, and what he told me changed everything.
Grandmother Eleanor—who I’d thought barely tolerated me, like the rest of the family—had been watching all along. She’d seen how they treated me, documented every cruel birthday they’d forgotten, every holiday they’d ruined, every achievement they’d dismissed.
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