Still, the wedding planner obeyed my mother. A server dragged a folding chair across the gravel path and placed it near the service lane, half-hidden behind the floral waste and stacked cardboard. Like he was something to be concealed until photographs were done.
“Mom,” I said, “that is disgusting.”
Her smile never moved. “Then sit with him.”
So I did.
For ten minutes, I sat beside him behind the trash cans while expensive guests floated past with shrimp towers and laughter. Daniel looked over once, then away. My father adjusted his cuff links and avoided us completely. My future sister-in-law, Vanessa, whispered something into Daniel’s ear, and they both smirked.
Grandfather rested his hands on the cane across his knees. “You don’t need to burn for me, Mira.”
“I’m already burning.”
His eyes moved toward the sky, calm and unreadable. “Good. Fire has its uses.”
That was when my mother marched over, furious that I was ruining the image. Her perfume hit before her words did. “You always do this,” she hissed. “You always choose embarrassment.”
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