Everything eventually involved Valeria.

My younger sister was twenty-seven.

Beautiful.

Charming.

Wearing a white cocktail dress to my wedding.

Not ivory.

Not cream.

White.

When she arrived, my maid of honor whispered:

“Do you want me to spill red wine on her?”

I laughed.

“No.”

At thirty-two, I thought I had outgrown letting my family bait me into reacting.

That confidence lasted approximately seven hours.