At 7:03, my mother arrived in person.
She came through the gate in heels too high for gravel, face tight with anger, phone gripped like a weapon. Naomi intercepted her, but I waved her back. Let her come.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” my mother hissed when she reached me.
I looked around at the candlelit tables, the relatives she had allowed Savannah to discard, Grandma smiling over a wineglass, the guests finally at ease. “Yes,” I said. “I invited the people you were willing to lose.”
“This was Savannah’s weekend.”
“No,” I replied. “This was her purge.”
My mother’s voice dropped. “Grandma was supposed to lead the family into the ceremony.”
From behind me, Grandma spoke before I could.
“Margaret,” she said, calm as stone, “if your daughter wanted me at her ceremony, she should have behaved like someone worth blessing.”
No one moved.
My mother swayed slightly, as if hearing it spoken aloud had struck her sideways.
Savannah never came. But her calls kept coming long after the jazz trio packed up and the candles burned low. By then, no one at my table had any interest in answering.
