in when the venue demanded its $40,000 balance.
It meant paying the caterer.
The florist.
The photographer.
Mom’s custom dress.
Even hotel rooms for relatives who later walked past me in the lobby as though I barely existed.
But being good with money apparently did not make me family.
At least not once someone pulled out a camera.
My oldest brother, Ryan, gestured toward an empty section of wall.
“Come on, Clara. Don’t make it weird. Mom wants a bloodline picture.”
Bloodline.
I had joined this family when I
