Mollie’s only request in the years before she died was that her ashes be scattered somewhere on the South Carolina coast. Her family tree had roots that dated back to the rice empires of Georgetown. She was far too frugal to waste space on her own dead body, and wished for nothing but a tide on which to ride away.

It was a simple request even for this family. And yet, seven years after she died, she was still sitting on the mantle in Aunt Edith’s living room.

She had been more than just my grandmother. In high school, when Mom would tease me about my weight, Mollie would tell her where to stick it. She was a smoker until the end, and had sneaked me my first cigarette. I can’t begin to describe how badly I wished I’d been born to Mollie instead of her mordant daughter.

Our Christmas gathering would have been the perfect cover. I fully intended to hijack that stupid urn and give Mollie some peace of mind – had Aunt Edith not bumped it from the mantle while vacuuming and beaten me to the punch, that is.