Behind Savannah, I saw our mother pretending not to watch. Two of my aunts whispered near the floral wall. My cousin Becca looked at me, then quickly away. No one said anything.
Savannah tilted her head. “We had to keep it intimate.”
I nearly laughed. Intimate? There were forty people in that room, including three women she barely knew from Pilates and a college roommate she hadn’t spoken to in six years. But somehow there was no room for her own sister.
I should explain that Savannah and I hadn’t been close in a long time. She was thirty-two, beautiful, socially magnetic, and skilled at arranging reality to favor her. I was thirty-six, quieter, less decorative, and in the family mythology, permanently labeled the difficult one because I stopped apologizing for other people’s behavior. When our grandfather died, I handled the estate paperwork while Savannah cried in tasteful dresses. When our mother needed rides after knee surgery, I drove down twice a week from Sonoma. When Grandma Eleanor forgot her medication schedule, I made the charts. Savannah called herself the heart of the family. I was usually treated like unpaid infrastructure.
Still, I hadn’t expected this.
Our mother finally came over, already halfway into her excuse. “Lila, honey, don’t make a scene.”
That was the moment the humiliation sharpened into clarity.
Not Are you okay.
Not This is cruel.
Not Savannah, what are you doing?
