Marry up. Marry safe. Marry a man with a name and a cushion under him.
My older sister, Vanessa, arrived last, the way she always did, so that everyone would see her come in.
Vanessa had married a cardiologist.
She wore a camel coat that cost more than my husband’s casket, and she carried a glossy designer handbag that she set on the pew beside her like a second, more important guest.
She waited until after the service, when I was standing by the flowers in front of a dozen relatives holding paper cups of weak coffee.
Then she came for me.
“Oh, Rachel,” she said, loud enough for the whole room. “Look at you.”
She touched my cheek the way you touch something you pity.
“I told you. Fifteen years ago, I told you. You marry a boy with no family and no money, and this is exactly how it ends. He left you nothing. Nothing but debt and two children you can’t afford.”
