The birch trees rustled lightly, creating a harmony with the freshly mowed, limey-green grass. The morning dew had settled and reflected the morning sun off its surface. Eleanor skipped happily down the cobblestone path, whistling in line with the morning robin.

“Good morning, Sam,” Eleanor smiled, her eyes like stars.

“How’s your ma?” Eleanor had known Sam her entire life. He had kind brown eyes, and a beard so white it looked like snow. Each Monday morning Eleanor’s mother sent her to retrieve a loaf of sourdough bread, which she seemed to enjoy, but as a fourteen year old, Eleanor had other things she wanted to accomplish. She was wise beyond her years, and dreamed of a life outside the little town she was raised in.

Sam continued, “I know she’s been pretty tough on you recently.”

“It’s the same as it’s been, always angry about the next thing. It’s never ending.” Sam nodded in agreement and sighed.

“Keep your head up, kiddo.” He reached over and patted Eleanor’s shoulder, simultaneously handing her the loaf of bread her mother requested. She smiled and handed Sam three heavy quarters. With that, Eleanor’s morning errand was complete. She opened the creaking wood door and began her walk home, her sandals flopping against the street with each step she took.

It was one mile back to her mother, but it felt like a thousand as the hot sun kept rising, making Eleanor’s bright blue eyes squint. As she walked, she passed the old shed that marked the outskirts of town and quickly shifted to the other side of the road. Sam once told her ghosts of farmers lived there, which explained why it always creaked, and why there always seemed to be a whooshing noise coming from inside. 

It scared Eleanor enough to send shivers down her spine each time she neared it. She vowed to never go in it, and why would she? The roof was made of oak wood and looked as though it could fall at any moment. One side of the door had collapsed on the other and stacks of bricks crumbled around the exterior. The two windows were shattered, which Eleanor could admit was her fault. 

When she was eleven, her mom yelled at her for leaving the front door open on her way out, and Eleanor was furious. It was the first time she was visibly angry at her mother, so she burst outside and into tears as she ran to town. She passed the shed, stopped for a moment, picked up a rock, and threw it at the window. Confused by what motivated her to do that, Eleanor took a step back. It felt good, seeing the window she’d shattered. She picked another rock up and threw it at the other window. All of the sudden, Eleanor was mortified looking at what she’d done. Worried that she’d angered the farmer ghosts, she vowed to steer clear of the shed from then forward.

Eleanor finally turned down the dirt path lined with mature oak trees that led her home. She opened the screen door and found her mother sitting on the back porch, a cup of bitter day old coffee in her right hand, a week old newspaper in her left. 

“Put it in the cupboard,” her mother said, giving not even a glance to her daughter. Eleanor stepped inside and set the bread down where her mother requested, taking in the moldy fumes that always seemed to encompass the kitchen. It was a sad place to grow up, but Eleanor smiled, for something about the lack of personality in the space reminded her of her father. 

When Eleanor was five, her father brought vibrant paints back from a work trip. When he returned home, he suggested painting flowers on the beige exterior of their house. Eleanor squealed with excitement and ran outside, her dad's strong hand linked in hers. She remembered the day filled with laughter, specifically when her Dad accidentally spilled the pink paint on his pants. He proceeded to dip a finger in the paint and draw a heart on Eleanors cheek, then directed Eleanor to do the same to him. Before long, their entire faces were covered in paint, and they were keeled over with laughter. When Eleanor's mother got home and saw them being goofy, she smiled and kissed both of them on the head. It was Eleanor’s favorite memory with her family.

“Mom?” Eleanor said softly, opening the back door and taking a seat in the wooden chair beside her. 

“Yes,” her mother responded, with a seemingly patient tone. She took a long sip of her coffee and folded her newspaper on her lap.

“Do you remember the time you came home to dad and I covered in paint?” 

“Eleanor Louise.” With that, her mother’s entire mood shifted in an instant. Eleanor immediately realized she had made a mistake. “ No, stop talking. I told you not to talk about Jameson, I don’t like it.”

“You could at least acknowledge him because he’s my father,” Eleanor snapped.

“Don’t raise your voice with me, young lady. You’re fourteen years old, with no right to backtalk me. Go to your room, I’m getting a headache.”

“It was a nice memory,” Eleanor continued, this time hoping to anger her mother further. She felt guilty for feeling satisfied by making her mother discontent with her. “I miss hi-”

“Get out.” 

Eleanor did. As much as she enjoyed putting her mother in moods like those, her mother was one of those people you could never negotiate with, nor hold a conversation with. Eleanor acted calm in that moment, but her anger was boiling inside her. She felt like she could cry, not because of what her mother said, but rather remembering how her mother used to be.

She arose from her seat and walked around to the front of the house, determining her next move. She decided to visit Sam again. He was like an uncle to Eleanor and always seemed to know what to say. Eleanor began to walk as she fought back tears, hoping her conversation with Sam would put her back at ease.