Eleanor stared at the retreating figure of Lyra, her mind spinning with the crushing realization. This young woman—the one she had watched suffer for years, the one who had endured endless cruelty—was her own flesh and blood.
"Lyra!" The name tore from her throat before she could stop it.
Lyra froze, her hand on the doorknob. She turned slowly, confusion evident in her eyes—those eyes that now Eleanor recognized as mirror images of her own.
Twenty years of memories crashed down on Eleanor like a tidal wave. She remembered watching from afar as Colette screamed at Lyra for some imagined transgression. She remembered slipping extra food to the child when no one was looking. She remembered the small gifts she'd leave—a book, a warm blanket, a tube of ointment for bruises—things she'd told herself were simple kindnesses for an unwanted child.
But they weren't just kindnesses, were they? They were the desperate, unconscious acts of a mother who didn't know she was one.
