Occupied with these thoughts, Lizzy had crossed Dauphin and Franklin and reached her block of Jefferson Davis. She was home almost before she knew it, walking up the steps to the front porch, putting her key into the lock and turning it, with the special happiness that she felt every time she stepped through the green-painted front door and into the tiny front hall, which was just big enough for a single shelf, an oval wall-hung mirror, and a row of coat hooks, where she now hung her floppy-brimmed hat.

Home. The word had taken on a new and very special meaning a couple of years before. Until then, Lizzy had lived her whole life with her mother. Her father had died when she was a baby, leaving his widow a nice little cache of money, safely and prudently invested. It wasn’t enough to allow her mother to live an extravagant life, but it was certainly enough to keep her from working or worrying her pretty head about anything of any consequence. This fiscal consideration had allowed Mrs. Lacy to focus every bit of her attention, energy, and concern on Elizabeth, her only child. She loved sewing and hat-making, and she dressed her daughter in her beautiful creations: ruffled and embroidered dresses and hats piled with ribbons and silk flowers.

Her mother’s attentions had not bothered Lizzy so much when she was a little girl, but as she grew older, the fuss over what she wore and how she fixed her hair turned to a constant, quarrelsome nagging. It was “Elizabeth, if you keep on frowning, your forehead will be permanently wrinkled!” and “Elizabeth, stop chewing your nails this instant! Your hands are a scandal!” and “Elizabeth, I simply will not allow you to bob your hair!” And every time Lizzy turned around, her mother had made her another new hat—or redecorated an old one—and insisted that she wear it.

The only way she could escape was to close the door to her room and write in her journal or read, for Mrs. Lacy couldn’t follow her into the pages of The Railway Children (who were blessed with a very agreeable mother) or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Huck had no mother at all). The trouble with writing in her journal, of course, was that Lizzy was writing about the secret places of her own inner life, and she could never be sure that—no matter how carefully she hid her work—her mother hadn’t found and read it. Lizzy was under no illusions. Her mother was that kind of mother.

Sometime during her last year of high school, Lizzy realized that she was never going to have a life of her own if she didn’t find a way to escape. Unfortunately, there weren’t that many options. The Lacys were well enough off to live comfortably in the house Mr. Lacy had left them, but not so well off (at least, that’s what her mother said) that Lizzy could go away to college. There hadn’t been any available jobs in town at the time, and the thought of leaving Darling for some unknown city was so daunting that Lizzy (more timid then than she was now) couldn’t even think it.