For months, people assumed Alyssa was just “the help.” But as she started attending Sunday dinners, driving Mom to church, and sitting in the family pew, the whispers started.
It came to a head in the produce aisle of the Piggly Wiggly.
I was inspecting cantaloupes. Alyssa was a few feet away, debating between kale and spinach for Mom’s smoothies.Mrs. Higgins cornered me. Mrs. Higgins is the town’s unofficial historian and chief gossip. She’s seventy, dyes her hair a color that doesn’t exist in nature, and wields politeness like a shiv.
“Margaret,” she crooned, parking her cart to block my exit. “Good to see you. How is your mother?”
“She’s doing well, Brenda. Getting stronger every day.”
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