They told me to move off to the side because Mom wanted only blood relatives in the family portrait.
Not next to my brothers.
Not anywhere near the birthday cake.
Not even behind the chair where she sat beneath the chandelier, smiling in her pearls.
The photographer slowly lowered his camera, clearly uncomfortable with what he had just been asked to do.
I looked straight at my mother, waiting for her to correct them.
Instead, she touched her necklace and said, “Just for this one, Clara. You understand.”
I did.
