The same parents who forgot birthdays, ignored accomplishments, and described me as “difficult” whenever I refused to be controlled.
At my grandmother’s fun*ral, four months earlier, they had seated me in the third row.
Not the family row.
The third.
My mother had worn my grandmother’s pearls to the service — the strand June had worn every Sunday for sixty years — and when I looked at them, she’d touched them and said, “She’d want them to stay in the family, Caroline.”
As if I were not.
Brett gave the eulogy.
It was mostly about Brett.
Lindsay read a poem she’d found online.
