Eleanor had to give that a few seconds of thought before shaking her head.

"I don't doubt it could happen," she said. "But I'm angry at this woman not because of Mother, but for what she did to Ce -- ... to my friend. I held her as she cried, thinking she was unloved, that she caused her mother to discard her own life. And I'm angry because ..."

She was struggling, now, with the words to explain the odd miasma of feelings in her stomach.

"My mother didn't love me," she said, forcefully. "I know that. I've accepted it. It doesn't hurt me." A convenient lie. "This other girl's mother isn't some monster. She doesn't have that excuse. She's supposed to love her and ..."

It was coming out tangled, no matter what words she used.