Swiftly, I learned an early-life lesson Michael was about to face the hard way. With Eleanor’s firm grip, I pushed myself up, legs still shaking from the cold.
Her warmth cut through the chill. “Are you alright, dear?” she asked softly.
“Not really,” I admitted, voice breaking. “But I will be.”
Eleanor nodded with quiet protectiveness. “Let’s get you warm and dry.”
We hurried to her car, the umbrella shielding me from the rain. Inside, the heat wrapped around me like safety, the leather seats easing the cold from my soaked clothes.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my place. We’ll sort everything in the morning,” she said.
Relief washed over me. Her home felt like a sanctuary, far from Michael’s world.
Rain tapped against the roof as we drove. My thoughts swirled—anger, sadness, confusion.
“Emma,” Eleanor said gently, “you don’t have to go back to him.”
Her words soothed something inside me.
“I know… I just needed to hear it,” I whispered.
She squeezed my hand. “You’re strong. You’re not alone.”
We arrived at her long driveway lined with oaks, lights glowing ahead. Inside, warmth, dry clothes, and tea replaced the night’s chaos. Classical music and a fire slowly eased the pain into something distant.
“We’ll deal with everything tomorrow,” Eleanor said. “For now, rest.”
And for the first time in a long while, I believed I could.