My grandfather flew six hours to be at my brother’s wedding—but my parents seated him behind the trash cans.

Grandfather rested his hands on the cane across his knees. “You don’t need to burn for me, Mira.”

“I’m already burning.”

His eyes moved toward the sky, calm and unreadable. “Good. Fire has its uses.”

That was when my mother marched over, furious that I was ruining the image. Her perfume hit before her words did. “You always do this,” she hissed. “You always choose embarrassment.”

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