My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been dating a man whose arrival required a presidential security sweep. Then the security team cleared the main hall.

“Penelope, good, you’re here,” she said, shifting her body as if she were blocking the entrance. “Listen, we think it’s best if you arrive after the ceremony starts and sit in the back.”

“Mom,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’m her sister.”

“I know, honey,” she replied, as if I’d said something naive. “But Serena wants everything perfect, and the Redcliffs are very particular about image.”

I stepped inside to a house that smelled like lemon cleaner and nervous energy. A garment bag hung from the coat rack, containing my mother’s dress that was likely more expensive than my rent.

“What about the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.

“Oh,” she said, hesitating while she smoothed her tone. “That’s family only, just the immediate family in the wedding party.”

“I am immediate family,” I pointed out.

“You’re not in the wedding party,” she replied, and the rest of the sentence stayed unspoken: therefore, you don’t count today.