After the divorce, I remember my mom planting marigolds around our “new” double-wide trailer. She seemed happy, despite it all, and my sister and I didn’t know any better. Before we had money, I never realized we didn’t. We pulled high heels and floppy hats from her closet and strutted down the uneven sidewalk wearing crop tops and terry cloth shorts. “Daaaarling” we would say, rolling our eyes and puffing on fake cigarettes like some blue-blooded debutants bored of high society.  With dirty knees and a stray cat never trailing far behind,  we performed and sang off tune under our sheet-metal porch, shoving the other out the proverbial spot light, sneaking punches between angry shouts like crude little savages before returning to our imaginary audience with a smile.