We became detectives in our own neighborhood, listening for scraps of gossip. And soon enough, the whispers arrived. Mrs. Holloway next door lowered her voice at the fence. “I saw Nora downtown, with a man much older. Looked serious.” Concern painted her face, apparently, but we knew judgment bled through her words.
The shame clung like smoke. Every glance from neighbors seemed weighted, and polite smiles seemed sharpened to dig into us. They imagined their own version of the story, and none of them was kind. I hated Graham more in those moments, for letting our daughter be branded by rumor and shadow.