I typed and deleted three responses. Then I wrote: I hope you learn the difference between family and inventory. I did not send it. I owed her nothing, not even wisdom.
A year after the birthday, I hosted a small dinner on the stone patio.
No three-tier cake. A simple lemon tart from the same bakery. My sister came. Two women from the gallery. Harrison came alone, paid up through installment eleven, carrying a bottle of wine that was within his means. The gas fire pit burned low and blue. The golden hour arrived on schedule, indifferent to the histories it illuminated. I wore a linen blouse the color of cream. My silver hair caught the light. Someone told a story that made us laugh, and the laugh did not have to climb over a smirk to get free.
Harrison stayed after the others left. We sat with the fire pit between us, the same fire pit that had eaten a Gucci bag and taught a patio full of guests that oops can travel in more than one direction.
"Do you regret it?" he asked. "The bag. Kicking us out."
I watched the flame.