Mom goes out on Saturday nights with her friends, Josephine and Carol, divorcees, and Aunt Mae, who is widowed. All are in their 50s. They go to The Brass Grill, on the West Side, across from Pellicci’s Italian Restaurant in Stamford, and to The Post Tavern, a bar in Darien, on the Boston Post Road. A woman, Grace, known to wear artistic hats with a flourish, owns this joint.

Mom flies on her own track. My sisters and I, left on our own, hear knocks from aunts, uncles, and cousins.

“One of those girls will end up pregnant before she’s out of high school!”

“Gotta’ watch those girls for Marie. They’re hangin’ out at Weed Beach on Friday nights. Who knows what they’re up to? I hear that kids get drunk. God only knows what else goes on there. The town should do something about that.”

“Why is Donna dating that older guy? What the hell is Marie thinking? Somebody has to sit Donna down and talk to her!”

“Why is Jeanne wearing that tight, pink sweater? What does she want – guys to check her out? Who’s that boy in the blue Volkswagen taking her out on dates? He’s not from Darien.”

“Did you see that dress she wore to the party? Looks like something out of the Goodwill box!”

“How long has Barbara been dating that boy? Isn’t she a little young to be dating?”

Marie’s right when she says, “I have a life of hard knocks!”

“What trouble is the baby, Maria, in now? Those kids that she’s friends with are no good, that’s for sure. She’s gonna’ get in trouble. Madone!”

“It’ll be a miracle if those four girls graduate high school!”

“Marie’s got a lot on her hands with her four girls! Poor, poor, poor Marie!”

Furiously, I roar inside. I can’t speak. I am suffering. No one really knows my sisters and me.