My first memory after falling down the staircase was hearing my mother-in-law speaking on the phone. Her sharp, impatient voice echoed through the entrance hall, sounding exactly as it did whenever a housekeeper misplaced something or a dinner reservation disappointed her.
“Come get your daughter, Arthur. We’ve done everything we can for her, and frankly, she’s become more trouble than she’s worth.”
I lay on the cold marble floor, struggling to breathe comfortably, while my husband, Preston Whitcomb, stood several feet away, making no attempt to correct his mother’s version of events. Mother’sDay gifts
Dad apparently said something she found amusing, because she laughed briefly before replying, “You really don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”
She moved the phone from her ear, allowing me to hear my father’s voice and recognize the quiet resolve beneath it.
“If my daughter has been harmed, Eleanor, I expect every person involved to answer for what happened.”
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