It had started it.
I did not rush out of bed in panic. I did not grab my phone with shaking hands. Instead, a strange calm settled over me — the kind that comes when you realize you have been pushed too far, and the only way out is to stop being afraid.
I got up, my bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. I did not bother putting on a robe over my silk pajamas. I walked slowly down the hallway toward the foyer.
“I know you’re in there!” Eleanor shouted.
I reached the front door and looked through the peephole.
Eleanor Whitford stood inches from my door, dressed in a cream trench coat and Hermès scarf, her hair perfectly styled, but her eyes wild with rage. Behind her stood Anthony, holding a leather briefcase and shifting uncomfortably, looking like a man hiding behind his mother. MotherhoodJourney Journal
Farther down the hallway, Mr. Henderson from apartment 4B had cracked open his door. He was a retired judge and member of the co-op board, and his expression was a mix of shock and disapproval. I knew other neighbors were probably listening too.
Eleanor raised her fist again.
I slid the brass security chain into place, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door only three inches.
Her fist froze in midair.
“How dare you,” she hissed through the gap. “How dare you embarrass me at Bergdorf Goodman?”
