I blew out a blow of breath for the third fucking time within thirty seconds, my eyes never leaving my phone for once. The message was still rolling, like it had gotten stuck somewhere, or maybe Eliza wouldn’t send anything. The dots would dance, stop, dance again… That same pattern for the past five minutes.
“What did she say?” Mom asked, opening the lids of the ice cream in front of her. As much as I loved ice cream, I wasn’t in the mood to follow Mom and do what we called “ice cream and tete-a-tete,” where we would drink ice cream while gossiping about the juicy things happening in the area for the week.
“She didn’t say anything.”
“What does that mean?”
For the first time, I wasn’t keen on discussing this issue with my mom because she would never understand why I liked Whale Mansion as much as I did. She never did; sometimes, I wondered if Eleanor was her best friend or mine.
Before I could find anything to say, my phone pinged, and I glanced at them at the speed at which Romeo fell in love with Juliet. However, unlike Romeo, I instantly regretted it because the world Eliza sent me was as clear as daylight. She was selling the house, and I could do nothing about it.
I’m sorry, Tina. I know how much you loved the house, like my mother, but my hands are tied, and I don’t have any other option.
“Damn it, motherfucker!”
“What’s it? She’s selling the house?”
I nodded.
“I told you she’d sell the house.”
If Eleanor saw this in heaven, I’m sure she’d roll her eyes like she always did and grovel until the angels shut her off. How could Eliza consider selling the house despite knowing how much Eleanor loved the mansion? It was the biggest betrayal in history, but it would never become a Guinness world record—unless I did something about it.
“How could she think of doing sorta thing like that?”
I grabbed the tub of ice cream and took a big, angry spoonful, hoping the cold sweetness might somehow numb my frustration. It didn’t.
“Tina, try to see where she’s coming from.”
I shot Mom a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Till the end, you don’t care about your best friend.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What? What are you on about? I loved Eleanor more than even her husband could love her.”
“Then why can’t you convince her daughter not to sell the house?” I whisper-yelled, not wanting the neighbors to hear me losing it.
Mom sighed heavily, leaning against the counter. “Because I see where she’s coming from. Eliza just left her gambling-addicted husband. She’s got four kids to take care of on her own. How do you expect her to pick up the pieces of her life without financial stability?”
“At the expense of Eleanor’s house?”
The words came out colder than I intended, but I didn’t regret them. Eleanor had poured her entire life into that house—her blood, sweat, joy, and pain. It was where she made her first money with her art, selling handcrafted jewelry at a folding table in the garden. It was where Eleanor fell in love for the first time and married under the sprawling olive tree in the yard. It was where she had her first child and grieved the loss of her second. Every corner of that house was a part of her story. And now, barely a year after she was gone, it would all disappear.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Mom said softly. “She loved Eliza more than she loved any building.”
“Yes, you’re right. She loved Eliza more than she deserved. But she wouldn’t have sold that house outright without trying to help her first.”
Mom folded her arms, then unfolded them as if the movement helped her think. Then, reaching for the ice cream again, her expression tightened. “So what are you suggesting?”
I set the spoon down with a loud clink. “We convince her not to sell it. And we try to bring Eleanor’s family into this. Maybe they’ll finally accept Eliza and help her.”
It was a story Eleanor hated telling despite how much she loved small talk and storytelling. She came from old money, the kind of family that flaunted their wealth at galas and charity events, but they cast her out for reasons she never shared with me. Even when she died, not one of them showed up for her—not a single person.
Mom’s laugh was short and humorless. “Eleanor’s family hasn’t spoken to her in over thirty years. They didn’t even show up for the funeral. What makes you think they’d suddenly welcome Eliza with open arms?”
“If we don’t try, how will we ever know?” I grabbed my phone, typing a quick response to Eliza before Mom could stop me.
“That’s not just dumb. It’s inconsiderate of you,” Mom said, her voice sharper now.
“Really? I’m the inconsiderate one for thinking about Eleanor?” My hands were trembling, but I didn’t care.
My phone pinged again, and I snatched it up, my heart doing that stupid, hopeful flutter. Maybe Eliza had changed her mind. Maybe she realized how much the house meant to her mother. Maybe she—
I read the message.
I know how much you loved Mom and the memories you created there, so I suggest you house-sit the mansion while I look for a buyer. It’s your chance to say goodbye.
The words sank into my chest like stones. I tossed the phone onto the counter.
“What did she say?”
“She wants me to house-sit the mansion.”
“That’s a nice idea. You’ll have the opportunity to say goodbye.”
I stared at her. Goodbye? No. That wasn’t what I was going to do. This wasn’t just about saying farewell to a house. It was about preserving Eleanor’s legacy and everything she stood for and maybe finding a way to help Eliza so she wouldn’t have to sell it.
On second thought, though, Mom was right. It wasn’t a bad idea. House-sitting would give me a front-row seat to whatever happened next. Maybe I could get close to one of Eleanor’s estranged relatives—someone with a soft heart and enough resources to turn Eliza’s life around.
“You’re right,” I said with a bright smile, grabbing my phone again.
Mom’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing.” I typed out my reply to Eliza, ignoring the look Mom was giving me.
House-sitting wasn’t just a chance to say goodbye. It was my chance to fight. There was no way I was letting Eleanor’s memories disappear. Not without a fight.
Ten years ago
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Eliza’s voice hit me like a slap, her hands folded tightly across her chest. She already knew what happened yesterday, yet her tone suggested she didn’t give a damn, and the expression on her face was even worse—icy, unrelenting.
“I’m staying over for a while,” I said, my gaze shifting to the TV. I flicked through the channels, pretending not to notice the daggers she was glaring at me. But her words stung. They always did.
“Why?”
How blunt could a person be? It was ironic, wasn’t it? Eleanor was the kindest soul I’d ever known, and yet her daughter, Eliza, seemed to have inherited none of that warmth—at least not toward me.
“Come on, Elizabeth, don’t be rude to her,” Eleanor’s voice called out from the kitchen. It had the usual strictness that could make anyone, except maybe Eliza, scowl and scatter.
Eliza rolled her eyes and threw herself onto the couch, flopping dramatically into the cushions. She stretched out a hand, grabbed the remote from my fingers without asking, and changed the channel to some reality show. No glance, no apology.
Once upon a time, we were cool. Six-year-old me and ten-year-old Eliza had been inseparable. We spent our days playing hide-and-seek in the backyard, braiding each other’s hair, and making up ridiculous games like “princess pirates,” where we’d battle invisible enemies on the high seas of Eleanor’s living room furniture. She had been my hero, older and wiser, and I had followed her everywhere.
Then, everything changed. A new girl moved into the neighborhood—blonde, tall, and closer to Eliza’s age. That was it. Suddenly, I wasn’t good enough anymore. The new girl was prettier, cooler, more “Eliza’s speed,” as she liked to put it. And just like that, we weren’t friends anymore. Sometimes, I still wonder what went wrong.
But now, here we are. Eliza knew my mom was in jail for thirty days for assaulting Dad and his new wife—but even with that knowledge, she couldn’t muster an ounce of kindness. She didn’t want me here and made sure I felt it.
“Come, girls, let’s eat!” Eleanor emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming casserole dish. The tantalizing aroma of garlic, melted cheese, and fresh herbs filled the room, making my stomach grumble despite the tension. The dish gleamed with golden-brown perfection. Eleanor made lasagna as a customary tradition when she tried to make us remember the good old day because once-upon-a-time Eliza and I had both loved it.
“What did you cook?”
“Lasagna,” Eleanor replied, setting the dish on the table with a proud smile.
I didn’t need to look at Eliza to know she was scowling. Instead, I focused on the screen, pretending to be engrossed in the meaningless drama of the reality show. And then, as if on cue—in three, two, one.
“Mom, why do you always do this?”
“Do what?” Eleanor’s tone was exasperated as she placed plates and silverware on the table.
“Always prepare Tina’s favorite! I don’t get it. Hello? Your daughter is still alive and well.”
Despite her words, she stomped over to the dining table, muttering under her breath. I trailed behind her, amused by her predictable reaction.
“I’m her favorite; get over it,” I teased, tapping her shoulder. She flicked my hand away immediately, her glare sharp enough to cut glass.
“I get it. I do. Your mom is practically MIA, and instead of trying to get her to love you, you get to compete with me for my mom’s.”
Yeah, that was going to be the quote of the day. Every time I came over—practically every day—Eliza found some way to say something hurtful. And somehow, she managed to make the old words sting less, and the new ones sting more.
If it had been anyone else, I would’ve snapped back. But this was Eleanor’s daughter, the woman I loved most. For her, I’d endure anything she threw my way.
“What is wrong with you? What has gotten into you?” Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip as she smacked the spoon in her hand against the table. The sound echoed through the room.
“I don’t like her. I don’t want her here. That’s what’s wrong with me.”
“Apologize now.”
“Nope, I don’t want to.”
“You’re grounded then,” Eleanor said, eyes flashing with anger as she crossed her arms, her jaw tight.
But that didn’t get to her daughter because she spun around to glare at me. “See what you’ve caused?”
“Maybe you should have spoken a bit nicer to me, but it’s fine. I’m fine, Eleanor. You don’t need to ground her.”
“Nope,” she said firmly. “I won’t tolerate her disrespect. You deserve more than that, Tina.”
“Oh, so lovey-dovey. I mean, I see the affection. I truly do.” Eliza stood abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor. She stared me down, her words dripping with venom. “You know what? You can have her as your mom.”
And with that, she stomped off to her room and slammed the door like she was five, not fifteen.
I stared after her, the door reverberating through the house. A small part of me—maybe not so small—wished her words were valid. I wish Eleanor were my mom instead.