Elaine
I pushed my chair back with more force than necessary, the scrape against the hardwood echoing in the otherwise quiet dining room. Helen looked at me, puzzled, her brows knitting together, but she followed without a word. I didn’t want anyone else overhearing this conversation. Not now. Not when I had so much on my mind, so much I had to confess, as though I were some kid sneaking into a corner of the kitchen to admit a terrible crime.
Once we were alone, the familiar smells of the kitchen—bread rising in the oven, the lingering scent of cinnamon from a breakfast pastry—filled my senses. I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to steady myself while stealing glances at Helen out of the corner of my eye. She was almost like a mother to me, and yet here I was, about to admit my failure
