I entertained myself with daydreams of Marco and me. Why did I do that to myself? It hurt. It made me feel lonely and lost and hopeless.

I did it anyhow. I daydreamed of us dating and in bed and taking care of all our animals and reading on his deck as the sun slid down into the ocean and being in bed together and hiking around the island and going to the cool lake and hugging through the night in bed.

I daydreamed when I worked, and rode Shakespeare and Jane Austen, and chased the goats who escaped again, and tossed a ball to Sundance, Butch, and Cassidy. I daydreamed about Marco when I was with my mother and aunts at their house and we were making hats.

“Are you all right, dear?” my mother asked when we were at Rose Bloom Cottage on a warm evening, the ocean frothing at the edge of our property, a greeting of sorts, the clouds puffy. We were making hats for a fund-raiser for the community center. My mother had piled her white hat high with faux roses in pink, white, and red. It was definitely a Dr. Seuss kind of hat. She had strung red buttons together and wrapped them around the roses like a ribbon. At the top of the pile of roses she had placed a tiny red, sequined hat. “A hat on a hat,” she’d told me, smiling.

“I believe that something is off with your spirit,” Aunt Camellia said. Her hat was the widest hat she’d ever made. It was burgundy, floppy, netting over the front. There was a magical garden all over it, complete with daisies, irises, and tulips, a willow tree, a small barn, and a tiny light blue house. “I have re-created our garden.”

“Everything going well with the bookstore?” Aunt Iris asked. Her hat was blue felt, and simple, until she glued silver sequins all over the brim, then attached a giant two-foot-long peacock she’d bought online. “For some reason, peacocks remind me of how important correct money management is.”

“I’m fine.”

They glanced at each other, worrying.

“Don’t worry,” I told them.

“It’s what I do best,” my mother said. “Worry about you.”

“She’s quite talented at worrying about you,” Aunt Camellia said. “As you know, dear. It’s in her genes, she cannot remove it. It’s part of who she is, as your mother.”

“It’s going to cause you to get an ulcer, Poppy,” Aunt Iris said. “You have to stop.”

“Mothers worry,” my mother said. “We can’t stop.”

“I love you three,” I said. My hat was something you would see a woman wearing to the Kentucky Derby. Red. Enormous brim. I was adding twenty purple ribbons to the back that would hang down about three feet. To the front I pinned felt flowers in yellow and white, with pink centers.