The world had seldom witnessed a woman as simple and complex as Eleanor Fetsbury of Cranford-upon-Reslington. A working single mother, she was extremely unpleasant in the most pleasant manner possible, deeply spiritual in an atheistic fashion, and so very fortunate in a There-But-for-the-Grace-of-God-Go-I sort of way. She loved to be hated, and hated to be loved, but I loved her anyway, because she was my mother.

What other choice did I have but to love a woman who would not show me an ounce of affection, but would battle a regiment of armed soldiers single-handedly in order to keep me safe?

Text and Audio ©2018 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys