“Thank you for your sympathy. He was sick.”

My socialite sister says this to a guest I don’t recognize, at my dad’s funeral reception. She is wearing a sweater-dress that is black, and a gold chain necklace; and looks rather like she dressed to impress.

I’m just the son, standing in the corner like that character in “To Kill a Mockingbird”. I glare at anyone who wanders by. “He must be grieving,” they say. “I hear they were close.”

My sister walks over to me discreetly. “At least try to act like you want to be here,” she hisses. The absurdity of it strikes me at once. Like I want to be here? This is my dad’s funeral reception! I am here in a too-small suit with a bunch of guests I don’t know, and my mother is not here because she and her boyfriend couldn’t possibly fly out here. Act like I want to be here.

“Fuck you,” I mumble. I storm away from her, running into various guests holding drinks. The door slams behind me on my way out, and I walk into the cold night.