My name wasn’t there.
I checked Table 2. Table 3. Nothing.
Finally, I found it. Evelyn.
Table 45.
I looked at the layout of the room. Table 45 wasn’t even on the main floor. It was tucked into a dark alcove near the service entrance, next to the swinging doors where the waiters brought out the steaming plates of fish. It was the vendor table. I was seated with the wedding photographer, the DJ’s assistant, and the videographer.
I felt a cold tightness in my chest. It wasn’t sadness. I had long ago exhausted my supply of sadness for this family. It was a sharp, clinical anger.
I walked past Table 45. I walked past the guests eating their appetizers. I walked straight to Table 1.
The family was laughing. My father was pouring wine for Mr. Sterling, his hand shaking slightly. Jessica was preening, touching her hair every three seconds.
I approached the table and stood behind an empty chair next to my mother—a chair clearly meant for an aunt who hadn’t shown up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother hissed, noticing me instantly. She turned in her seat, blocking the chair with her body. “This is for the bridal party and VIPs. Your seat is over there.” She pointed a fork toward the kitchen doors.
“I am the sister of the bride,” I said, my voice projecting slightly, cutting through the chatter at the table. “I flew five hundred miles to be here. I belong at this table.”
“Don’t start a scene,” Jessica snapped, glaring at me. “You don’t fit in, Evelyn. Look at you. You look like a pauper. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the head table.”
“The aesthetic?” I repeated. “Jessica, we are sisters. That should matter more than a photo op.”
I reached out and pulled the chair back.
