Three days passed in a blur. The memorial was set up on an open lot near the hospital. White silk, black gauze, the low drone of mourning music. Hardly any guests. Cold and quiet.
A few steps away, a high-end restaurant blazed with lights and color. Drums and music poured from its doors. It was the birthday banquet Clay had organized for his "most beloved mother."
A red silk arch stood directly across from the memorial hall, gold lettering gleaming in shameless celebration: Wishing Mrs. Farley boundless fortune and everlasting health. Well-dressed guests streamed past with gifts in hand, laughing and chatting. Not one of them noticed the mourning next door. Not one of them heard the funeral music, as if that single stretch of pavement separated two entirely different worlds.
I had just finished lighting incense before my mother-in-law's memorial tablet when I saw Evangeline strolling over on Clay's arm. She wore an elegant gown, her makeup done up heavy and flawless. The moment she spotted me, her lips curled into a look of practiced sympathy, though her voice carried loud enough for every guest nearby to hear.