It’s safe to say that Eleanor Oliphant’s name will never appear in lights, and nor would I want it to.
I’m happiest in the background, being left to my own devices.
I’ve spent far too long taking direction from Mummy. The subject of Marianne had caused me so much distress,
me trying furiously to build up my courage and direct my memory into places it didn’t want to go.
We’d agreed not to force it, to let her appear naturally, we hoped, as we talked about my childhood.
I’d accepted this. Last night, as Glen and I listened to the radio, the memory, the truth of it, had come to me, quite unbidden.
It had been a perfectly ordinary evening, and there was no fanfare, no drama.
Just the truth. Today was going to be the day I spoke it aloud, here in this room, to Maria.
But there had to be some preamble. I couldn’t just blurt it out.
I’d let Maria help by leading me there. There was also no escaping Mummy in the counseling room today.
It was hard to believe that I was actually doing this, but there it was.
The sky didn’t fall in, Mummy wasn’t summoned like a demon by the mere mention of her name.
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