The Writer

The tension between them lingered, thick and unyielding. Emma stepped further into the house, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of Eleanor's vague words. Leon followed closely, his expression unreadable as his sharp gaze flickered between the two women.

Eleanor turned her back to them, busying herself with clearing a cluttered table. "Sit," she said curtly, motioning toward the mismatched chairs around the small dining table.

Emma hesitated, glancing at Leon, who gave her a small nod. Reluctantly, she pulled out a chair and sat. Leon remained standing, his arms crossed as if bracing himself for whatever truth was about to unfold.

"I'm only going to say this once," Eleanor began, her voice quieter now but no less firm. She avoided Emma's eyes, focusing instead on a faint crack in the wooden table. "What's happening to you is… because of me."

Emma's brows furrowed. "Because of you? What does that even mean, Mom?"