The Aunt assembles phyllo shells filled with fig preserves and brie while sipping her Manhattan. Needing another jar of preserves, she slips behind the kitchen to the pantry where her niece’s voice reverberates.
“Aunt Mary is such a joke, especially when she drinks. She thinks she’s funny,” Ally says.
The Aunt halts.
“I know. Did you see her dancing at the wedding?”
“I know, right? She should act her age and lose weight.”
The Aunt hears them pouring more wine before returning to the party. Her eyes sting just for the barest of moments. She’s hurt, but she shrugs. The only time she’ll act her age is when she’s dead.