Even if she knew what she was in for with Mrs. Haltom, my mother couldn’t refuse. She’d never even graduated from high school; it would have taken her years to get anywhere close to what Mrs. Haltom was offering her overnight. And Mrs. Haltom knew, by making the offer in front of me, that if my mother refused or demurred, she’d have to justify turning down a chance to get us both out of Montague Village, where the sound of gunfire and breaking bottles drifted through the walls at night and the few people who had ever greeted me with kindness now looked on me with a resentment bordering on hatred.

My mother had to take the job, but not just for me. Ever since she’d brought me to Yeatman, I could sense her longing for the kind of life she’d given up. She saw women her own age who had never been forced to work to survive, whose hardest choice seemed to be whether to spend spring break on a private Gulf Coast beach or on the slopes in Vail, whose biggest worry seemed to be whether their sons would get into Vanderbilt. By living in the Haltoms’ carriage house and working for Mrs. Haltom, my mother knew she would not be equal to any of those women, but she’d at least enjoy some proximity to their privilege.

“Children,” my mother said, addressing Jamie and Vanessa, “would you approve of our living here?”

“Of course, Miss Boykin,” Vanessa said.

“Yeah,” said Jamie. “I think it would be cool.”

I nodded.

“Jim?” my mother asked.

“Absolutely, Bonnie,” Mr. Haltom said, recovering himself somewhat. “Charlie’s practically a member of the family now. I know it seems very sudden, but we feel like you’ll be happy here, and we know you’ll do a fine job.”

“Thank you,” my mother said.

“So you accept?” Mrs. Haltom said.

“I do,” my mother said, with all of the enthusiasm of a mail-order bride.

“Grand,” Mrs. Haltom said.

Sunny sat on the couch smoking while we carried our boxes out. The Haltoms’ caretaker, Scott, had driven over to help us move.

“I won’t be holding your room,” she said. “So don’t come crawling back when that old bitch kicks you out on the street.”

My mother didn’t say a word. She might have felt guilty about ditching Sunny, who had taken us in when no one else would. She probably also worried that Sunny was right—that our elevation would be cut short by a change of heart or a misstep.

In any case, our last moments as a makeshift family were depressingly unceremonious. Sunny refused to get up off the couch; my mother had no interest in appeasing her.

“I’ll give you a call when I find out our new number,” my mother finally said.

“You do that,” Sunny said.

“Bye, Aunt Sunny,” I said.

“See you around, kiddo.”