Vanessa Whitman stepped into the room with purposeful strides, already dressed in a tailored blouse and heels despite the early hour. She did not greet Eleanor, did not ask how she slept, and did not slow her pace as she crossed the room. She pulled the curtains open in one sharp motion, flooding the space with cold morning light.
“Up,” Vanessa said flatly. “You have been in that bed long enough.”
Eleanor blinked against the brightness, her throat tight. “Vanessa,” she said quietly. “Please. I am in pain today. I just need a little time.”
Vanessa crossed her arms and tilted her head, studying her mother in law with a look that carried neither concern nor curiosity. It was the look of someone assessing a problem they found inconvenient.
“You always say that,” Vanessa replied. “And yet the house still needs to be ready. I have guests coming this afternoon.”
Eleanor tried to sit up, gripping the edge of the mattress for support. The effort stole her breath, and she had to pause, waiting for the stabbing sensation to pass. Her nightgown brushed against the tender skin of her back, and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying out.
“I cannot today,” she whispered. “My back is worse.”