So I kept quiet then when I met her, and I kept quiet now in the darkness of my room as I listened to my own son dictate my bank card numbers to his wife. Each number was like a heartbeat stopping for a second. Not because the betrayal itself hurt me, but because it confirmed what I had been refusing to accept for months: that to them I was no longer Eleanor Hayes. I was no longer a mother. No longer family. No longer the woman who had helped them through every crisis. I was just a bank account with a name and a number.
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