“Yes.”
“Then why
is your sister pretending she arranged it?”
I shrugged.
“That’s what Camille does.”
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Teresa looked at me for a long moment.
“Olivia, why do you keep allowing this?”
I didn’t have an answer.
The day before the celebration, I visited my great-aunt Ruth.
She was my grandmother’s younger sister, eighty-four years old, and one of the few people in our family who had always made me feel important simply for being myself.
She lived in a small brick house on the north side of town.
Her rooms were filled with plants, old books, and a rather spoiled cat named Mister.
I brought her a white rose corsage for the party.
She held it carefully and smiled.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything, sweetheart.”
“I wanted to.”
She invited me inside for tea.
We sat at her little kitchen table while Mister slept on the windowsill.
