And Mama started acting like she hardly knew Olive and Daddy, like being in the house made her skin crawl. She got all jumpy, was always making up excuses to go out: they needed milk; it was a beautiful night for a long walk; a friend needed help with something. She started spending more and more time away from home. She even skipped spring cleaning that year, and when Olive brought it up, Mama shrugged, said the house was clean enough.

Olive heard her parents fighting late one night last summer, heard her daddy say, “Who is he?,” followed by “Half the town knows it.” Mama denied it, asked him please for the love of God to lower his voice.

Then, in the morning, Mama didn’t come down for breakfast. Usually, she was the first one up and had the coffee perking, but that morning, Olive came into the kitchen and found Daddy pouring hot water over instant coffee.

“Mama’s not up?”

“She’s not here,” Daddy said, clenching his jaw.

“Where is she?”

Daddy didn’t answer, just looked away, dark circles under his red eyes. And part of Olive was glad he hadn’t answered, hadn’t told her the truth.

Over the next days and weeks, Olive tried hard to block out the gossip she heard around town: the hushed whispers spoken by all the adults at the general store and the library, even by the kids in school. That was the worst—starting high school last fall and hearing all the older kids whispering, “Her mama ran off with some other man. Must suck to have a slut for a mom.” She walked the long, too-bright halls with her head down, pretending not to hear, pretending not to notice.

Aunt Riley, Daddy’s older sister (my bossy older sister, Daddy called her), told her not to listen to what people said. “You know your mama better than almost anyone,” Riley said. “Don’t you forget that.”