“Not with me, you aren’t.” She studies the mantel, where Bette Davis sits. “I know I oughta punish you, but sometimes the moments that shape us are a result of a little bit of mischief.”

“What about Mr. Joe?”

She chuckles. “He’s none the wiser. For a former investigative reporter, he’s not all that sharp.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” I tell her. “The first one was more of an accident. But then I liked it. I liked helping people and looking for a way to fix their problems.”

She lets a small grin slide. “You’ve got the bug. And I’ll admit: you weren’t all that bad at answering. But it sounds like the letters might have gotten the best of you.”

I nod. “Well, the first letter fixed things with Kiera, but then with Oscar—it just made a huge mess.”

She gives me a rigid smile, the kind my mom does when she’s got news that’s bad for me but maybe not for her. It feels like that’s been happening with me and adults a whole lot lately.

“Sweet Pea,” Miss Flora Mae says, “I’ve got to wonder . . .” She pauses a moment, and I wait for the other shoe to drop. The bad news to balance out her good news. “Maybe Oscar isn’t the problem. Or your dad or your mom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t help but feel defensive.

“What that means is that maybe you weren’t being the best friend to Oscar and maybe your mother should date if she wants to. She’s a grown woman after all.”

“But it’s so soon. And everything’s happening so fast. . . .”

She sets her glass on the coffee table and leans forward. “I know seeing your parents move on from each other must be painful, but that doesn’t mean they’re leaving you behind.”

“Everything was fine before Dad . . . well . . .”

“Before your father announced he was gay.”

I nod. Of course she knows.

Miss Flora Mae gives me a good long look before saying, “Maybe it was fine for you, but trust me when I tell you, my dear, that if your parents don’t take care of themselves, they can’t take care of you. Have you ever been on an airplane?”

“Three times,” I tell her. And all three times were to go to Connecticut.

“Good,” she says. “Do you remember the flight attendant telling the passengers that should the air masks release from above that the adults should put their masks on before helping those around them?”

I nod.

“And did you ever feel like that sounded a teensy bit selfish?”

“Well, now that I think about it, yeah.”

She leans forward toward me. “That’s because your parents can’t help you breathe if they can’t breathe for themselves. You understand?” Leaning back, she rests her arms on her armchair, like it’s a throne. “I don’t have all the answers, despite what my advice column might lead you to believe, but there’s more to marriage than being a parent, and there is oh so much more to being a parent than being married.”