The country club ballroom looked like a jewelry box without a soul. Crystal chandeliers. White roses. Champagne towers. A string quartet near the stage. Women in silk moved beside men in tailored suits.
I stepped through the doors, and conversations thinned.
People stared at the uniform first.
Then my face.
Near the stage, a gold banner read:
Honoring Serena Vale, Our Family’s Guiding Light.
A display table held framed photos of Serena: at charity lunches, beside judges, in office windows with city lights behind her.
No photo of me.
Not one.
My mother saw me and went pale for half a second before her hostess smile returned.
“Clara,” she said softly, “this is not the place.”
I looked at the banner. “You made it the place.”
Her smile tightened.
“Don’t embarrass us.”
That was the last sentence she ever said to me as my mother.
I moved to a shadowed corner near the back wall and watched.
