Vivian's face hardened instantly.
She clutched the urn to her chest, shooting a frantic look at my brother. He caught the signal immediately, digging into his pocket and tossing a crumpled three-dollar bill at me.
"Alice, stop causing trouble. Go to town and buy some fireworks for tonight. Now."
I glanced at Vivian, guarding the ashes like a dragon with its hoard. They were terrified I'd steal their luck.
Suppressing a cold laugh, I snatched the money, feigned disappointment, and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.
But I didn't stop watching.
As I walked down the road, I pulled out my phone, eyes glued to the living room surveillance feed. On screen, Vivian beckoned my nephew over.
"Ryan, come here. Come get some of Grandmother's blessing."
I nearly stopped walking. In her obsession with superstition, she'd conveniently forgotten her own son's severe asthma.
When Ryan had his first attack years ago, I'd begged them to take him to a specialist. Vivian had only screamed at me, blaming me for feeding him "dirty" osmanthus cake—ignoring the fact that he'd begged for it.
"My son's cough is your fault!" she'd shrieked.